


Espoir

by Alterz



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (in later chapters), Alexithymia, Depression, F/F, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Redemption, Slow-ish burn, Tritagonist Fareeha Amari, character focussed, flirts at being an ensemble piece, occasionally introspective, referenced canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alterz/pseuds/Alterz
Summary: Amélie Lacroix doesn't come back to Overwatch repentant. She just wants to be on the winning side.It's not the way Angela and the renewed Overwatch would've wanted, but they're low on options. They'll just have to figure out how to function with Amélie in their midst. Now removed from Talon's influence, Widowmaker finds herself changing, and will need to decide if it's for the better.





	1. Prologue

Angela is in Iraq when the recall goes out. No matter where she goes in the world-- across Europe, Asia, both Americas-- it's a patchwork of sparkling development and lingering no-man's-land still showing the scars of the Omnic Crisis. Iraq is no different. The clinic Angela's been putting time into is on the outskirts of Old Ramadi and runs on generators and boiled river water even though the lights of the rebuilt city can be seen on the horizon at night. New Ramadi has money and doctors to spare. Angela has spent the last week helping to bring its medical technology to the poor and the refugees relegated to the ruins.

Her Arabic is getting very good, though she's told it's obviously a different dialect.

The recall is on her communicator when she wakes up after a short night's sleep. She doesn't process it at first, staring blankly at the message like she's suddenly forgotten English.

All she can think is,  _ Why? _ There was a reason Overwatch was disbanded. It was militaristic at its core, and the blood on every agent's hands wasn't washed off by good intentions. Last she'd heard, the Petras Act hasn't been repealed, either.

It's a wonder that she doesn't delete the message and move on with her life, but Winston deserves that she at least call to explain herself. The problem is she doesn't know what she's going to say. 

She spends the day with the weight of the recall hanging over her. They were a military force, she reminds herself. This new, reformed Overwatch won't have the funding or technology that the old one offered her to make up for that. Winston won't understand that: he believes in the system, believes in heroes, believes in fighting for a better world.

Angela doesn't believe that fighting can ever lead to a better world.

Angela is an idealist, though, and that little voice in the back of her head is whispering: what if? What if they could remake Overwatch? They could do it right this time, if the core wasn't made up of soldiers.

Even if Angela doesn't go back, she knows others will. Lena will. Reinhardt. The three of them will get themselves into trouble and die without backup. Angela tries to think of who else might answer, and keeps coming up with names and faces that she cares about, and doesn't want to see in a list of casualties on the news.

She wonders if Winston sent Fareeha a recall, in honor of her mother. It freezes her to her core, suddenly realizing she's uncertain how Fareeha would respond. The next call she gets could be from Cairo, saying  _ I'm sorry, Angela, but I'm going. _ It could say,  _ I've moved on from those dreams _ . She doesn't know.

Would it make her decision easier, knowing Fareeha's? Angela trusts Fareeha. If Fareeha goes… if Fareeha goes, maybe they  _ could _ make it right. Winston and Lena and Reinhardt and Fareeha, that's a group she could work with. A new Overwatch. No Blackwatch, no corruption, no completing the mission at any cost.

But there's so many ways for it to go wrong.

~~~

Fareeha gets the call from Winston personally. It's late and she was about to go to sleep, but Fareeha always picks up the phone. After she hangs up, she's glad that she did. Getting a recorded message about the recall would have been disappointing.

This is an important decision, and one Fareeha wants to give its due consideration. She sleeps on it. She focuses on her work the next morning. She's still weighing the options when Angela calls her.

"Has Winston contacted you?" is Angela's first question after the pleasantries.

"Yes, he has," Fareeha tells her.

"I thought he would," Angela sighs. "Are you going?"

Subtleties are sometimes lost through the phone, but Fareeha's pretty sure she heard hesitation. "Are you not?"

The hesitation is definitely there now. "I don't know," Angela admits after a moment. "I had my problems with Overwatch before it was disbanded. I'm not sure that they'd be resolved by bringing in new people."

Fareeha doesn't have to ask what's not being said. Angela never liked working for a military organization. They've had some very strong discussions about it in the past. "Surely it wasn't all bad," she says. "You did good work with them before."

"They had funding! And state of the art facilities!" says Angela. "What does Overwatch have now but a muddied legacy and an injunction against its very name?"

She's not wrong. "You think it's unsalvageable," Fareeha says.

"I don't know. I can imagine who will go back. The idealists." Angela sighs. "But the old guard were idealists, too," she adds quietly, "and we know how that ended."

It's an old, dull pang, one that Fareeha's gotten used to walking off. "Preventing a repeat might be reason enough to go back," she says, testing the sound of the justification out loud.

"I just don't want them to get in over their heads," says Angela.

Those words stick with Fareeha afterwards. At the end of the day, she thinks Angela will answer the recall. She'll be reluctant, but she'll do it. Despite the way she'd said the word before, Angela is herself an idealist.

Fareeha is an idealist, too, and she knows it, which is why she intentionally slams a wall of realism in front of the train of thought otherwise speeding straight to her childhood dreams.  _ We'd like you for Overwatch. _ She'd always wanted to hear those words.

But Captain Fareeha Amari has a job, and that job is important. Helix Security does good work. Making sure Anubis doesn't break containment is the sort of job Overwatch would have had before it crumbled. The fact that she works under a different name with a different uniform doesn't mean Fareeha isn't protecting innocent people. Overwatch isn't the only way to do that.

Fareeha stares at her phone. She's too old to do what she's slowly realizing she's going to do. Might as well square up and admit that she needs advice that very few people can give.

The phone rings twice before her mother's warm voice breathes, "Fareeha! What a surprise!" through the speaker in Arabic.

"It's been awhile, Mum," Fareeha greets. "How is it where you are?" She doesn't ask where that is. It's usually safer not to know.

"Hot," Ana tells her, "and dry. It reminds me of home, actually. What about your work?"

"Work has been quiet," says Fareeha. It's a good transition, so she dives in. "Something has come up, actually, and I suppose I need some advice."

"What is it, dear?" asks Ana. There's the soft shuffling, like cloth. It sounds like Ana is settling down for the long-haul.

"Winston called me last night," Fareeha says.

"Winston?" Ana repeats. "Our Winston?"

"Our Winston," Fareeha confirms. "He's recalling all the old Overwatch agents. He... he invited me in your stead."

"Oh, sweetheart," says Ana. Fareeha feels like a child again, despite everything. A child worrying her mother. "I will admit, I didn't think this would ever happen."

"Neither did I."

"You're still deciding what to do about your invitation, then?" Ana guesses.

"It's not an easy decision," Fareeha says. Her mother makes a low sound of agreement, but doesn't interrupt. "I don't dislike my work at Helix, and I don't think the work is unworthy."

"But…?"

_ But I always wanted to join Overwatch _ , she thinks, which is a bad reason. "But I worry about them," is a good one, and equally true.

She can hear the smile in Ana's voice. "Of course you do, dear. You grew up with them. They're your family."

"I can't in good conscience abandon my post here," says Fareeha, "but…" she's not sure how to finish that sentence.

Her mother seems to understand. "We always looked out for each other, in the old Overwatch. After I left, I worried about who would protect them. I had to trust that they would look after each other without me, and it was the hardest thing I've ever had to have faith in."

Fareeha's silence probably speaks volumes more than the words she follows it with. "How well did they repay that faith?" The words would be cruel, coming from anyone else, but this is a pain that she and her mother share.

"Most of them repaid it well," Ana says gently. "And the ones who didn't… I'm working on that. Would things have gone differently if I had stayed? I don't know that I could have done anything, with the way I was at the time. I made my peace with that question long ago."

"Angela is worried that a new Overwatch will end the same way the old one did," Fareeha says.

"It's possible that what happened was inevitable," Ana starts slowly. "The organization was too big. The left hand didn't know what the right hand was doing. And there was a tendency to view everyone as enemies, if we were soldiers. It pains me greatly, to know the crimes that some of our agents justified to themselves." Fareeha starts to apologize for asking, but her mother stops her. "No, this is important. Overwatch lost its way. But before it did, it stayed on the right path the same way that it stayed safe: we watched out for each other. There were enough people with a strong moral fiber to remind the others of where the line was, and watch the ones who seemed likely to forget. Reinhardt in particular, bless the man, made himself into a wall that no morally grey argument could even hope to scratch."

"Reinhardt will probably answer the recall," Fareeha comments.

"He will, absolutely," Ana agrees.

There's a moment of quiet and then Fareeha says, "He can't be the only one keeping an eye on things. That's too big a job for one person."

"You'd be surprised what a person can do, if they're being relied on."

Fareeha's not sure if that's about Reinhardt, or about herself. She wonders if her mother knew what choice she would make before Fareeha herself. She probably did.

"I know," she says hesitantly, "that you never wanted me to join Overwatch-"

"Oh, darling," Ana says sadly, "it was not Overwatch. I didn't want you to have to fight. I thought maybe, if I fought, then you would never have to. You would be safe."

"I could never stay on the sidelines for my own safety," says Fareeha.

"I know," her mother replies. "I know. I never wanted this for you, but I'm not the one who gets to make that choice for you. As long as you are sure in your choice, I will support you however I can."

"Do you think I can do it?" Fareeha asks in a moment of weakness. "Be a watchman for Overwatch?"

"My darling Fareeha, I know you can," says Ana. "You have grown into a fine,  _ good _ woman. I could not be more proud of the person you are. That udjat of yours won't let anyone wander astray."

"Well," Fareeha finds herself laughing a little with relief, "I suppose I have nothing to fear, then."

"You will do wonderfully," her mother guarantees.


	2. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/4/2017 Edit: This fic was originally written for NaNoWriMo 2016, and was posted in its entirety by July 2017. What I'm getting at is that this was written before the reveal of certain things like Brigitte's parentage, or Moira's existence. As such, this fic has a large dollop of headcannon and, as of Blizzcon 2017, is firmly in the realm of AU.

The morning before the Widowmaker kills Tekhartha Mondatta, she idly watches a spider climb its way up a window and spread its web across the corner. It's a common garden spider, and not particularly big, but it doesn't have to be big to be portentous.

She wants all the bad luck to be taken up by Tracer's persistent interference, but the assassination succeeds and so the Widowmaker waits for the other shoe to drop.

The shoe drops, and drops, and drops. It drops in Gibraltar and Numbani and in editorial think pieces whispering about a reformed Overwatch. It drops in the collective failure of the world's governments to rip Gibraltar apart to the bedrock. Talon starts having failures even when Overwatch isn't involved at all, starting with Volskaya. The Widowmaker runs into Tracer again in Prague and in Lisbon. She hears that the Reaper's last operation was similarly squashed under 180kg of enraged gorilla.

It is… dissatisfying. It takes a lot to get under the Widowmaker's skin nowadays, but it's been months since she made a successful kill and there's a dull sting starting to niggle at the back of her mind like a bug bite. She knows this feeling: she's angry. It's finally built up enough for her to recognize it.

Another op goes sideways. The Reaper reforms next to her after getting blasted to pieces by an unexpected turret, an irritated growl under his breath. She's inclined to agree.

He doesn't do or say anything outside the norm, stoically cracking everything back into place, but Widowmaker can tell he's nearing the end of his patience. She can't explain how she knows. It should be harder to read him when he's quiet, with the mask and without his combat theatrics. Maybe it's because they've worked together often enough to build up a rapport. Maybe it's because she knew him before, in a different life with different names.

It's only a matter of time before the Reaper cuts his contract and leaves Talon to its own devices. She wonders if Sombra will run with him, or if he'll come back for her later. Sombra might leave on her own. She's made her contempt for the organization clear for a while now.

The idea sits poorly with Widowmaker. If the Reaper strikes out on his own, there will be no one Talon can partner her with who will actually work with her at her level. Overwatch has clearly shown themselves to be a match for either one of them on their own. The Widowmaker's chances of satisfactorily completing a mission will drop even more.

How annoying.

She's not so different from the Reaper in this way: she stays with Talon because they provide her with something she wants. In her case, food and shelter, protection from incarceration, and kills that give her a reason for living. Without that last one, it's hard for her to care about the others.

If she leaves Talon, Widowmaker knows she'll be vulnerable to any agency she meets. There will be no mercy for someone like her. Without a full hand to play, she's as good as dead. 

This in mind, she starts poking into systems and gathering information. It's not hard. Talon has long since mistaken her obedience for loyalty, and given her more room to act on her own because of it. She can't build up the sort of cache she would like, but over time (and around another failed mission and two cancellations) she gets enough onto a flash drive to give herself some room to bargain.

Laying on her cot at night, idly tracing the web on her right arm, the Widowmaker wonders how certain she is about defecting. It may be a bad idea. Then again, she's never liked Talon. She doesn't like anything. She doesn't hate them either, but she hasn't had a successful op since London and Talon has started aborting missions at the first whiff of Overwatch rather than waste resources on a fight. The ennui is becoming unbearable.

The tipping point comes in Italy. She's set up on a roof whose old decorative architecture makes for a perfect, and aesthetically attractive, sniper nest. It wasn't hard to slip into place past security. Her scope is centered above the podium, waiting for her target to step into place. The Widowmaker is focused. Her breath and her heartbeat are even. The wind gently stirs her hair against her bare back. It's meditative. It's calm.

It's shattered by the sound of her handler through the comms. "Abort mission. Widowmaker, return to base."

Widowmaker mutters "Acknowledged," into her mic, instead of "Pour la baise!  _ Pourquoi? _ " which is what she's thinking. Sullenness doesn't reach her voice, but it's a near thing. The handler probably wouldn't like that. Widowmaker is hard pressed to care what the handler would or wouldn't like.

No explanation is forthcoming, neither on the trip to rendezvous nor at the safehouse. Widowmaker dawdles at disarming while her handler reports back to Talon. Her breath and her heartbeat are even. The handler ends the call, and Widowmaker calmly shoots them in the back of the head.

It's only a matter of time before Talon notices something's wrong, so she prioritizes. Shimmying the bulk of her outfit down is easy, but leaves her vulnerable as she cuts a slit into her inner thigh and takes out the first tracker. She wastes no time in ripping the second out of an inner seam and pulling the whole thing back up. Cracking a thin panel off the stock of her rifle reveals the third. A fourth is carefully removed from the delicate wiring in her visor. Talon is very careful about making sure their technology is retrieved before it can fall into enemy hands.

The rifle and visor go in a duffle bag, with spare ammo and all the credits her handler had on them. Stripping the corpse gets her ill-fitting pants and a jacket to make her slightly less conspicuous. The added clothing is too warm for comfort. Widowmaker can feel herself starting to sweat as she steps out into the sun and calmly, quickly, walks away.

~~~

Widowmaker spends her first week squatting in an old house just south of Viterbo. There's escape routes available and a few places she can go to ground if need be, but it's out of the way enough that Talon  _ will _ come for her if they know she's there. She stays prone the whole time,  weapon trained on the door. When nothing comes of it, she knows she's tracker free and sleeps for the first time since deserting.

Getting to Spain is made both easier and harder by acquiring a hoodie, sunglasses, and a scarf, which further hide her distinctive coloration but also make her overheat fiercely. Autumn hasn't made things cool enough for the scarf to be much more inconspicuous than her skin, let alone to cool her. The ferry to Barcelona is the worst leg of the trip, despite the cold wind kicked up by their speed. Widowmaker keeps waiting for the sound of helicopter blades over the Mediterranean to herald a Talon retrieval squad. It never happens.

By the time Widowmaker gets to La Línea, exhaustion has taken care of her remaining nerves. Two weeks of foot travel is easily the most prolonged physical work she's ever had to do. The increased demand for food has drained her money, and the heat is unbearable. When she finally finds a suitable warehouse, she strips down to her measly armor, stretches out flat on the concrete floor, and lays there for a quarter of an hour feeling the wicking material and the ground leach the warmth out of her body. It's not dignified and her back is covered with grit, but Widowmaker can't find it in herself to care.

Widowmaker spends another two days preparing. She's still fairly apathetic about the concept of capture, but if she's in jail then she'll never work again, so she makes the effort to maximize her chances of escape. She sorts her information, deciding what will go into the initial peace offering. There needs to be something valuable in each drop if she wants keep Overwatch hooked.

She slips past the fence--  _ "Closed by executive mandate" _ \-- to drop the message off at the Watchpoint with depressing ease. Not even a basic alarm. Widowmaker returns to her hideout, eats a full meal, and makes sure to get a full night's sleep. She'll need it.

~~~

The message Overwatch receives is simple: "To the agents of Overwatch: consider this a gift. There's more where that came from, if you are willing to make a deal." There's a time, an address, and a flash drive containing three documents, which in turn reveal two locations and two names as Talon affiliated. It's too good to be true, and too good to pass up.

~~~

WIdowmaker is regretting coming to Gibraltar. There are plenty of other agencies that might have taken her more willingly, and none of those are headquartered behind a bottleneck. If things go poorly here, she'll have to cross the open airstrip back to La Línea with law enforcement on the lookout for her. That's a nightmare she'd rather not deal with, but there's also a limit to how long she can lay low in the preserve that makes up the Watchpoint's backyard.

Gibraltar is also regrettable because she's sitting in the patio of a little chips place, and the food she bought to complete the tourist look is too awful even for her forgiving palette. Widowmaker has learned to tolerate some truly terrible food, but this is too much.

A macaque has been watching her food basket for the last few minutes and she has absolutely no idea what a normal human's reaction would be if it decides to steal the picked over fries. Is she supposed to fight the monkey over the food? Scream? Just let it have it? None of Amélie's life experience prepared her for this.

Widowmaker is thus distracted when the woman walks into the seating area. If she weren't on such high alert, Widowmaker would have missed her entirely. Instead, she keeps one eye on the macaque and another on the newcomer. Familiar. Early thirties. Her face is mostly hidden by chin-length black hair under a dark blue baseball cap and large sunglasses. The familiarity is bothering Widowmaker. The woman's coat hangs inconspicuously, but there's definitely a sidearm holstered under her left arm.

Out of the corner of her eye, the monkey ambles closer. At the sidewalk, the familiar woman tilts her head in the characteristic way of professionals with earpieces and says something.

Widowmaker can only assume the agent radioed in about her presence, because a moment later the bulk of Overwatch's gorilla makes itself known coming around the corner. Tourists do double-takes and whisper to each other, while the locals treat him with the same lack of concern that they give to his mundane distant cousins. Tracer in aviator sunglasses and a bomber jacket zipped up over her chest rig is almost invisible next to him, despite the orange bodysuit.

A completely different macaque runs up and steals Widowmaker's basket. Suppressing her instinct to lash out at the sudden movement probably comes across as a surprised jump, so that's okay. If the monkey wants to take her garbage for her, so be it.

Tracer is the one to approach her, Winston hanging back instead of trying to squish in among the tables and their patrons while the familiar woman places herself inconspicuously between the other two.

"Funny runnin' into you here, luv," Tracer greets her. She smiles. It doesn't quite reach her eyes, so Widowmaker doubts it's genuine.

"Bonjour," Widowmaker responds, cold but polite. "I see you got my message." She adds a crooked little smirk, because her amusement always seems to affect Tracer despite the Brit's own cheerful demeanor.

"That we did! Gotta say, it's a bit of surprise it was from you, though," Tracer continues, undaunted.

"There are very few other people it could have been, cherie." Widowmaker makes her smirk a little more cocky. There's a shift in Tracer's eyebrows, but her poker face holds, so Widowmaker can't tell what it means. She pulls out her second drive. "You have come back for more?" she purrs.

"'M  _ always _ up for more," Tracer plays along. "What say we go somewhere cozier, luv, talk it over?"

"Surely you don't think I will go back to your place so quickly?" Widowmaker scoffs, pocketing the thumb drive. "Let us walk together."

"After you, luv," Tracer says, waving her forward with a theatrical bow.

Widowmaker blows her a kiss in passing. As she approaches the second woman, recognition snaps into place. She looks like the late Captain Amari. This must be the daughter, then. Fareeha. She'd forgotten that Fareeha was only a year younger than her. Fareeha has grown up well, the spitting image of her mother in face, frame, and bearing. Widowmaker feels a faint pang of nostalgia for the captain, with an aftertaste of residual pride. The younger Amari's expression is unreadable behind the sunglasses.

The gorilla has been fidgeting under the gazes of the less discreet tourists, but he makes an attempt to stop when Widowmaker draws even with him. She looks up into his yellow eyes, puts on her sweetest smile, and says, "Hello, monkey. Shall we talk?"

"I'm not- " Winston stumbles, "I mean, yes, we should, but I'm not a monkey."

"C'est égal," Widowmaker purrs.  _ Same thing. _ She gently brushes past him and trusts that he'll follow. They leave the chip shop in a group. Widowmaker is aware of Amari and Tracer flanking her.

She doesn't lead them far, counting on being able to put crowds in their way if they try anything. There's a sitting area a little closer to the edge of the nature preserve that will give them some quiet.

When she stops, she can tell they're suspicious. It's ridiculous. There's not nearly enough coverage to hide a team that could take on these three, especially with Widowmaker front and center rather than perched up above. Tracer and Winston are bad enough, and she doesn't need to know what Amari's capable of to assume that she's also formidable.

"So," Winston starts before anyone else can say anything, "you wanted to talk." He sounds dubious.

"I wish to make a deal," Widowmaker says.

"So you said," Tracer answers. "You're gonna have to say a little more'n that, you get me?"

Widowmaker smiles. "Let me join Overwatch."

The effects are immediate and mostly satisfying. Tracer's laugh is incredulous. Winston is slowly picking his jaw up off the floor. Even stoic Fareeha Amari has an expression Widowmaker can read, with her eyebrows practically in her hairline.

"You out of your gourd, luv?" Tracer asks.

"I assure you, I am quite serious," Widowmaker replies, shifting gracefully to a more relaxed pose. Her smile comes more easily with the agents off-balance.

"Then you must think we're a load of morons," says Tracer. "You really think we'd trust you so easy?"

"No, no, no," Widowmaker answers, waggling her finger. "I think you will trust what I can  _ do _ for you."

Tracer scoffs again, and Winston picks up the thread. "Now, hold on. What are you offering, exactly?"

"My services, for one. Your operation can not be so big that you could pass up my skills easily," says Widowmaker. Winston seems open to letting her talk, at least. She's lost the pulse on Amari again, annoyingly enough. "And of course, I have brought what information I could. To sweeten the pot."

"How much information?" Winston asks.

"With what I give you today, you will have half of what I collected," Widowmaker tells him. "I do not expect you to make your decision now. If you meet me here again at this time in three days to give me your answer, I will provide you the other half. In good faith," she adds with a special smile just for Tracer.

"Got a lot of that, have ya?" Tracer asks.

"You would be surprised what I have to offer when properly motivated, chérie," says Widowmaker with another coy smirk. Tracer is unflustered. Shame.

"What  _ is _ your motivation?" asks Amari. Straight to business. Widowmaker wonders whether she's here to keep the other two from getting sidetracked, or if it's to provide extra muscle. Maybe both.

"In all honesty?" Widowmaker asks.

"Please."

"Your group has proven to be rather a thorn in my side, and Talon can no longer provide me with what I desire," she confesses. "I want to be on the winning side again, and it seems that that is Overwatch."

"You're tossin' your old employers over pretty easy," Tracer comments. "Lost some of your loyalty to 'em?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Widowmaker says. It sounds more acerbic than she'd intended. Amélie's hands shook when she was wrapping them around Gérard's sleeping throat.

"What was Talon giving you?" Amari asks. Widomaker turns back to her, almost thankful. She smiles at the daughter of the woman she killed.

"Targets," Widowmaker answers sweetly.

"Our shooting range isn't actually up to full capabilities," says Winston.

That's mildly amusing. Widowmaker graces him with a small chuckle. "Human targets," she clarifies. "Surely Overwatch has enemies that need killing just as much as Talon did."

"Disgusting," Tracer mutters.

"I am an assassin, chérie," Widowmaker says with a grandiose shrug. "I live for the kill."

"Was that all Mondatta was to you?" snarls Tracer. The force is surprising. It keeps Widowmaker from being able to focus on interpreting Fareeha Amari's small frown. Thoughtful? Disapproving? Widowmaker doesn't know. Tracer may be about to assault her.

"That's enough," Winston interferes, putting a giant hand on Tracer's slim shoulder. It's too gentle to be holding her back, so it can only be intended as comfort. Widowmaker doesn't know how a palm as large as one's head could be calming. It's convenient that she's not being punched in the face, though. The monkey is still talking. "We'll," he pauses, "think about your offer. But you have to understand, all things considered…" he trails off.

"You can not trust a former enemy, and you are under the impression that trust is necessary to work with someone," Widowmaker finishes for him. "I know. But I think you will consider it worth it to ensure that I am not working for anyone else, instead." She produces the flash drive and holds it forward. Amari takes it.

"What happens if we simply decide to arrest you?" Amari asks. Up close, Widowmaker can see sharp eyes watching her from behind the tinted glass.

"I invite you try," Widowmaker bluffs. "There are any number other employers I can approach." She smiles like she knows something they don't, and steps around them. "Au revoir, mes amis." The Widowmaker walks confidently away, stepping down an alley and getting off the ground level as quickly as possible.

~~~

Fareeha is quiet as they return to the base, thinking. Keeping an eye out around them is second nature to her by now, so she lets herself go on autopilot. Lena's outraged chatter is a buzz in her ear.

She'd never put any thought into revealing the infamous Widowmaker's identity after her mother told her about it. It didn't seem as though that knowledge would help in hunting her down, and Fareeha had no way to explain how she knew it. Now, suddenly, it matters.

Fareeha unlocks her phone and starts flipping through the pictures. She digitized her mother's old photos a long time ago, but she never would have expected it to be  _ useful _ . There's only one group shot that includes the Lacroixs, smiling happily at the camera next to Jack.

A younger Fareeha never would have thought that Mrs. Lacroix was capable of doing the things Fareeha knows she has done, and even with that knowledge Fareeha never could have imagined the bloodthirsty monstress that smiled at her minutes ago. It seems inconceivable that Mrs. Lacroix could have hidden such viciousness inside her.

Fareeha walks quickly to rejoin Lena and Winston as they get to the fence of the Watchpoint proper. Lena came after the Lacroixs, and Winston gave no sign of recognition when he met with the Widowmaker. It's on Fareeha to reveal the truth.

"Look at this," she says, passing the phone to Lena. The younger woman takes it curiously, scrutinizing the picture for a moment before she gasps.

"Is that…?" Lena asks.

"I thought Widowmaker looked familiar," Fareeha lies. "You see the resemblance too?"

"Yeah, luv, it's hard not to," says Lena, passing the phone up for Winston to squint at.

"The similarity is striking," he judges, adjusting his glasses with a frown. "Is that Gérard?"

"Yes," Fareeha confirms, "standing next to his wife, Amélie. I think this was taken shortly after they married."

"I thought they said his wife was killed too," Winston says.

"Everyone thought so," Fareeha tells him. It's true.

~~~

The meeting room isn't actually properly a meeting room. The old conference rooms remain musty, dusty, and unused. Instead, the few of them fool enough to return to Gibraltar meet in an old communal area that's been serving as Winston's sitting room for the last few years.

Angela is nursing a tension headache. It got steadily worse as the conversation regarding Amélie Lacroix's sudden reappearance progressed, and hasn't eased at all now that everyone is finally taking five seconds to actually think.

The stuffiness of the room isn't helping, the pervasive animals smell amplified by having seven people in the room together. She wishes she were wearing her Valkyrie suit, even if using it for headache control would be a gross misuse of the technology.

Now that Lena's calmed down-- as much as she ever does, which means she's still zipping in and out of the room-- it's a little easier to gage where their small group sits on the situation. Lena is, of course, adamant that Amélie should be brought in and immediately turned over to someone with solid maximum security. She's faced "Widowmaker" the most, so it's to be expected.

Torbjörn and Reinhardt are still discussing it. By Angela's reckoning, Torbjörn is mildly on the side of incarceration, while Reinhardt is working himself farther and farther to the side of leniency. Brigitte seems to be uncertainly somewhere between the two, both physically and in her judgement. Angela doesn't envy the poor girl, the only one in the room with no personal attachment to either Amélie or her new identity.

Angela herself is torn. A small, optimistic part of her wants to bring Amélie back, forgive her and let her redeem herself. A more cynical part isn't sure it's  _ possible _ : Amélie's suspected victim count is huge, and contains such personal losses as Gérard Lacroix, Tekhartha Mondatta, and, perhaps most painfully, Ana Amari.

Fareeha has left the room, refusing Angela's comfort by saying that she needs time by herself to think. Angela can't imagine how much it must hurt to be faced with her mother's murderer.

Winston is taking his role as impromptu commander seriously, clearly putting effort into weighing the rest of the team's feelings and Athena's input. He's trying to contact their more wayward associates for feedback.

Lena appears by her shoulder in a flash of blue light. "You wouldn't happen to have a good way of reachin' Genji, would ya, luv?" she asks.

"What little contact we've had has been by the way of letters," Angela replies.

"Well that won't do," is all Lena has for that, and she's gone again.

A few minutes later she's back with Winston lumbering in behind her. "Dr. Zhou seems to be out of signal range," he announces, "and Genji isn't answering."

"I'd've thought he'd have somethin' to say about this, myself," Lena comments.

"So would I," Winston agrees. "Thankfully, McCree has actually answered his phone." He props up a tablet on the table so the man in question can see the group.

Jesse looks rough, though his tip of the hat and drawled, "Howdy, y'all," are as polite as ever. He seems to be calling in from a derelict shack, if the worn boards behind him are any indication. Angela thinks he looks like he might not be eating very well, either. The perils of being on the run.

"Fareeha still hasn't come back?" Winston asks.

"Give her time," Reinhardt says firmly. A big man can carry a lot of sadness as he continues more gently, "It is not so easy to do the right thing when it regards a person who has hurt you like Fareeha has been hurt. She will find her way eventually."

"You seem to think the right thing is to not turn her in," Torbjörn points out.

"I  _ know _ it is!" Reinhardt declares with a conviction Angela can't match.

"Reinhardt, luv, she's killed dozens of people," Lena says.

"I am quite aware of what she has done," Reinhardt answers, "but Overwatch has always been about keeping the peace, not about punishment. Did we not give the remaining Omnics their chance, when the omniums were destroyed?" Torbjörn makes a face like he's smelled something foul, and it only gets worse as Reinhardt motions to him and continues, "Torbjörn himself is giving sanctuary to a Bastion unit, of all things!If Amélie wishes to atone for her crimes and comes to us in peace, how can we deny her that chance?"

"The Bastion unit doesn't want to  _ shoot people _ ," Torbjörn growls, "which isn't the case here."

"She did explicitly say that she thinks we'd be better patrons than Talon at the moment," Winston points out. "Her reasons aren't exactly altruistic."

"Nonetheless," Reinhardt barely looks chagrined, "she has come to us as an ally, not an enemy. It will not do to treat her like one."

"It may not be that easy, big guy," Brigitte steps in carefully. "With a record like hers, Overwatch can't let her in without consequences."

Athena's icon pops up on the tablet in a second window. "That is correct," she announces. "Overwatch as it currently stands is acting in direct defiance of the Petras Act. However, no international response has yet been initiated beyond statements of condemnation. The Talon agent known as the Widowmaker is either a person of interest or actively wanted in eighteen countries in Europe alone. Accepting her deal will add charges of aiding and abetting, as well as making all active Overwatch members complicit in any crimes she commits after this point." Her mechanical voice takes on a chiding tone and adds, "This is to say nothing of the impact to Overwatch's public image."

"Maybe we could keep her hidden?" Winston suggests.

"That would almost certainly fall under the aforementioned aiding and abetting, Winston," Athena answers.

"We're in a rough state as it is," Torbjörn says. "That's only going to get worse if we start associating with criminals! Er," he looks chagrined at the tablet, "no offense there, McCree."

"None taken," Jesse chuckles. "There's a reason I'm stayin' out here. I'd sooner not bring the authorities down on all y'all faster'n they're already planin' to move."

"Aw, there's a difference between her and you anyway, McCree," Lena reassures. Angela remembers Jesse at seventeen and disagrees. There's not much that she and Jesse agree on, but Angela is glad he's staying in the States.

"That's sweet, darlin', but I'm not so sure that's true," Jesse answers, echoing Angela's thoughts. He looks down as he brings a big, nasty looking cigar to his lips and lights it up.

"Jesse! You haven't quit that awful habit yet?" Angela scolds automatically.

"Now, you're not gonna get a lungful'a smoke all the way over where y'all are, so you're just gonna have to forgive me," he says, letting the old argument roll off him. He inhales deeply and looks thoughtful as the smoke pours back out of his nose. "I'll be honest with ya. It's a bad idea to play 'er game. I've heard 'bout what the Widowmaker can do, and I'm sure she'd be an asset, but you can definitely throw 'er farther'n you can trust 'er. And just 'cause you give someone the chance to turn their life around doesn't mean they're actually gonna do it."

Jesse looks so tired, with the crow's feet growing around his eyes. If he'd run into the Widowmaker before this, Angela doesn't think he'd have hesitated to shoot her.

"Then again," he continues, "I wouldn't've bet on  _ me _ doin' anythin' good with my life back when I first got brought in, so I'd probably be a hypocrite to say flat out that y'all should turn 'er away." Jesse scratches at his beard and gives a soft laugh. "Hell, that's not very helpful, is it? My bad."

There's a moment of silence following this little speech. Angela wonders whether Winston had been thinking of that when he called Jesse. The cowboy hasn't officially decided to answer the recall, not eager to return to Overwatch's rules and regulations, but he's the most knowledgeable of all of them when it comes to the subject of hiring former criminals. The only one who might have known more was Reyes, but Angela doesn't like to think of what happened to him, so she speaks up before her thoughts can stray too far down that path.

"I feel as though we rarely have a chance to show this sort of mercy," she begins. Jesse snorts at the word choice, but she ignores him. "If we turn her in, she will certainly be executed. You all know I would like to avoid such measures if possible." Angela hopes Fareeha will forgive her for even suggesting this. It seems almost like a betrayal to say it. "We would need to plan carefully. How we would hide her, and what we would say if she is revealed. What we do if she turns out to be a spy of some sort. But we could do it."

Reinhardt looks overjoyed, the others less so. Jesse is shaking his head in a way that conveys  _ Typical Angela _ as clearly as if he'd said it out loud.

"She'd need a tracker," Torbjörn says. "We'd have to secure my shop and Brigitte's van, and all our weaponry and computer systems. It's a lot easier for everyone if we drop her off at a police station."

"But is it not worth it if we can give Amélie a chance to join the right side again?" Reinhardt asks.

Torbjörn's sigh is heavy. "We can't treat her like she was." He looks unhappy as he says it. "The Amélie we thought we knew never would have hurt Gérard, but here she's been working with  _ Talon _ ."

Every eye in the room turns towards the door as Fareeha quietly comes back in. She nods in greeting and sits down next to Angela.

"I don't like it either," Torbjörn finishes, "but she's got crimes to answer for."

"I agree. There must be justice," Fareeha says. Angela feels her gut clench. She's not expecting Fareeha to continue, "That is why I am recommending that Overwatch give Ms. Lacroix a chance."

The stunned silence is deafening. Angela doesn't think she's been so confused in a long time.

"What happened to 'justice'?" Lena asks, dismayed.

"There are many ways in which justice can be carried out," Fareeha says, unwavering in her conviction. "She is offering to be cooperative. Turning her knowledge and skills to the purpose of saving innocents instead of harming them can be its own type of justice."

"You thinkin' she'll follow in my footsteps?" asks Jesse.

"Who knows?" says Fareeha. "She is much older than you were. She has made her choices. Maybe she will make the right one this time, or maybe we will be forced to take her down anyway, but this seems to me the better option to start with."

"You don't need to look so smug," Brigitte mutters at Reinhardt, who does indeed look fit to burst. Angela suspects he would already have swooped Fareeha up into a bearhug if there weren't a table in the way.

"What, um. What about Ana?" Winston asks carefully.

Fareeha holds her head high, a captain in her own right. "If my mother were here, she would want to know how Talon recruited Amélie. How long she was working her way into Overwatch. Why they activated her when they did, and not earlier. How many more sleeper agents they might have had. Amélie Lacroix's knowledge about Talon is worth much more than just the files she is offering. My personal feelings are not more important than the benefits to be gained from her alliance."

"I still think we're gonna end up havin' to take her down," Lena grumbles. "She'll turn on us as soon as we're not useful to her."

"She is a turn coat. That's what they do," Fareeha answers solemnly. "Cross that bridge when you get to it."

~~~

The Widowmaker doesn't sleep for three days. Her perch near the Queen's Gate gives her a good view of the new meeting place, perfect for seeing if the Overwatch agents are trying to set a trap. She's brought no food with her, so the monkeys mostly leave her alone, though some of them curiously circle around her during the first day of her vigil.

She doesn't know whether she's disappointed that there seems to be no duplicity on Overwatch's part. If they're trusting her so easily, they're dumber than she thought. On the other hand, just because they don't immediately black-bag her doesn't mean they're letting her in. They're probably waiting for her to walk into the Watchpoint. This was stupid. Her old handlers would've thought of this ahead of time. She should've planned more.

She thinks they probably won't, though. Either they will take her on fairly, or they will take her in. She thinks that's something she knew when she was Amélie. This Overwatch has no Blackwatch to be cunning for them. Right?

Her mind races. Her breaths stay even. She stays easily in position. Sweat pools in the small of her back during the day. It's too hot and her mind won't stop spinning. Widowmaker stays put.

It's a very long three days.

~~~

It's Tracer and Amari who come back for her. Widowmaker wonders what the monkey is doing back at base that kept him from coming.

She lets them stand around for a few minutes, to see if they give anything away, but all she sees is a pair of women waiting somewhat patiently. Amari holds all the patience for the both of them. Tracer is clearly keeping an eye out, moving from vantage point to vantage point checking their perimeter. It's strange to watch her walk around like a normal human.

Widowmaker doesn't know why she's taking so long to get moving. Might as well get this farce over with. She packs her scope back into the duffel and stretches as she stands. One good thing about the insufferable heat of the jacket: it's kept her muscles languid instead of letting her seize up as she held her position. It quickly becomes a curse again as she starts moving, obscuring her point of origin by taking the long way down.

"Oh, there you are, luv!" Tracer greets her, circling around to get next to Widowmaker when she comes into view. "We were startin' to wonder if you'd gotten cold feet, you know."

Widowmaker arches an eyebrow. She thinks Tracer is trying to bait her. Her feet are always cold. "I am not one to turn away from a challenge, chérie."

"Don't I know it," Tracer sighs. They've reached Amari by now, who greets Widowmaker with a polite nod. "Luckily, I'm not one to back down either."

"How foolish," says Widowmaker.

"Perhaps you two might stop antagonizing each other for a moment?" Amari suggests archly. Tracer makes a face at her.

"I suppose we might as well get this over with," Widowmaker agrees. "You have an answer for my proposal?"

"Against my better judgement," Tracer answers. She plants her hands on her hips and cocks her head at Widowmaker. "You got the info you promised?"

"Of course," Widowmaker says, flourishing the drive in question.

"Well then," says Tracer, smile too cheerful to be genuine, "welcome to Overwatch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This fic has been written in its entirety and later chapters are in the editing stages. I'm hoping to post every Friday until it's done.
> 
> If you enjoyed, please kudos or leave a comment. I'd really appreciate it.


	3. For the First Time, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow everyone, thanks for all the support from chapter 1! I really appreciate it and I hope you all continue to enjoy this fic.
> 
> Before we go into the second chapter, I want to note that I've changed the tags. On reread of some later chapters, I've decided to upgrade to the Graphic Descriptions of Violence tag; while I don't consider any of it particularly gratuitous, it's definitely there and better safe than sorry.
> 
> I also want to give the heads up that this chapter involves a brief description of a blood draw in a strictly medical context, in case anyone needs to brace for that.

Of course, joining isn't that simple. They want to check all of Widowmaker's gear, and she'll have to wear a tracker. The unspoken implication that she should stay on her best behavior doesn't go unheard.

The gorilla's earlier absence is explained when he greets them at the gates. Winston is holding what looks like a metal detector wand with extra pieces welded on, and Widowmaker can only begin to guess what it's supposed to do as he carefully runs it over the contents of her duffle bag one at a time. She wonders what he thinks she could possibly have hidden in a box of ammunition.

Amélie only ever visited Watchpoint: Gibraltar once, when Gérard was there on some business. She compares the fuzzy memories to what she's seeing now as she's led in. Many of the rooms and hallways are lit only by what natural light comes through the windows, clearly conserving generator power. It's dusty and the air smells old in the way of a building long closed up and left to sit. Even those rooms which have been cleaned up and aired out by the movement of bodies feel emptier than they should be. It's a shell of what it was.

At least the workspace they bring her to seems regularly used. She's never been here before at all, and Overwatch doesn't intend for her to ever be here again if the passcode protected door is any indication.

It's immediately apparent why: there's experimental technology in development down here. Widowmaker is flattered that they would think she could do anything with what she's seeing.

A cute brown-haired woman is sitting at a computer when Winston leads her in. Widowmaker thinks she might be in her early twenties, give or take. The woman looks up from whatever she's doing, and seems much less hesitant than the others as she stands up to greet Widowmaker.

"Welcome to the workspace," she says, in heavily accented French. "I am Brigitte Marceau. What should I call you?"

The name is French. The accent is surely German. Perhaps Alsatian, Widowmaker muses as she shakes the hand that Brigitte has offered. What a smooth way for Overwatch to figure out where Widowmaker stands without outright asking: introduce her to someone she has never met. _Why not._ "You may call me Amélie," she answers.

"A pleasure," says Brigitte. She smiles. Widowmaker wonders where they got this recruit, and what she actually does here.

Winston clears his throat loudly. "If you could return to English, please?"

Madame Marceau's smile reaches her eyes now. "Sorry, Winston," she says, acquiescing. "It's been so long since I've had the chance."

"The two of you can talk later," he replies. "Right now, I'd like to finish getting things set up."

"Of course. I've finished programing the tracker," Brigitte reports, picking up a thick ring of metal.

An icon like a stylized A lights up on the computer screen, and a woman's voice rings through the room to add, "The tracking system is configured and prepared for activation."

Brigitte looks apologetically to Widowmaker. "This will have to go on your ankle."

Widowmaker frowns. The anklet is bulkier than she'd like, but at least it's not like the clumsy boxes she's seen criminals wearing in classic media.

"As long as it is not too heavy, I suppose it will have to do. But you will have to provide me with new crampons," she says. She balances on one foot so she can show them the specialized bottoms of her shoes.

"Easy enough," Winston agrees. Widowmaker's not sure he'll actually do it, but what choice does she have? It's not like she _needs_ the assistance, anyway.

First thing's first, though: she barely got the pants on over her boots before, and the leg openings aren't wide enough to pull up past the calves. They have to go. She refuses to wear the over-warm things a moment longer anyway. There are several yelps and Winston turns around the moment she unzips her pants. Prudes. It's not like they haven't seen the armored leggings before.

"You've been wearing that underneath the whole time?" Tracer asks as Widowmaker moves on to shedding the rest of her extra layers.

"Why would I not be?" asks Widowmaker, slightly muffled as she pulls the hoodie over her head. "It's thin enough to fit underneath without any issues." Other than the heat.

"Um, 'cause it's useless?" There is a tone to Tracer's comment like she thinks this is obvious. When Widowmaker tosses the hoodie aside, she can see that Tracer has an eyebrow raised and is looking at her expectantly.

"It is not completely useless. The material helps me control my temperature, and it is reinforced enough to armor me a little," says Widowmaker. She focuses on detaching her boots.

"What about your chest and back, luv?" Tracer presses.

"M'est égal," Widowmaker says with a shrug. "I am not intended for the front lines anyway."

Tracer looks like she still wants to argue, but maybe Widowmaker's apathy keeps her from continuing. The room is warm but Widowmaker's sweat still cools against her skin. It's a relief.

"Let's get this over with, chérie," she says when she can prop her bare foot up on a nearby stool.

"It will only take a moment," says Brigitte, approaching with the anklet. "Athena, if you please?"

"Monitor anklet unlocked," says the projected voice. The anklet clicks open in Brigitte's hands, and clicks again when she closes it around Widowmaker's ankle. The metal is smooth and solid, and distractingly heavy, but Widowmaker doesn't think it'll take long to get used to the imbalance. "Initiating," Athena announces, and then a moment later, "Monitoring system online. Welcome to Overwatch, Ms. Lacroix." Widowmaker twitches despite herself. The AI sounds smug.

"I think perhaps Amélie should be allowed to settle in now," Amari finally speaks up. She's been watching quietly the whole time, except for jumping with the others when Widowmaker stripped down. Widowmaker doesn't know why she's joining back in now.

"There's still other steps," Winston protests. "Dr. Ziegler wanted-"

"Those steps can wait," Amari says firmly. "We have time. Come," she addresses Widowmaker, "I will show you where you're sleeping."

Amari and Tracer appear to carry out a quick conversation through facial expressions alone, the gist of which remains opaque. Undaunted, Amari waves for Widowmaker to follow and starts out of the room. Widowmaker is curious what Angela wanted, but it seems she's not going to find out.

"See you later, chérie," she waves goodbye to Tracer. The way Tracer's smile tightens is gratifying; Widowmaker can see the anger.

Amari leads her surely through the corridors, towards what Amélie remembers as the personnel areas, the only other parts that seem to be in regular use now. Widowmaker is sure she'll be able to remember the route if need be.

"We're not going to the cells?" Widowmaker observes.

"Not if you don't give us a reason," Amari answers calmly.

"You're a very serious person," says Widowmaker.

"You don't know me very well," Amari replies. They reach a room whose door has been left open, airing out the last of a stale scent. At least the dust has been removed and there's a mattress, which is more than Widowmaker had hoped for. "You don't have to stay in this room," says Amari, "but Athena will be keeping track of your movements and alert us if your activities seem suspicious."

"How kind of you to warn me" Widowmaker says, smiling the sort of sly smile that gets a reaction out of Tracer. Amari's expression is unchanged. "I would have thought you'd leave me enough rope to hang myself. Do you not worry about a Talon agent in your precious Overwatch?"

"I would rather give you every chance to prove yourself," Amari says.

Widowmaker suppresses a frown with some difficulty. It comes out as a squint. She flips through Amélie's memories of Ana for something to compare Fareeha's expression to, and comes up with Ana's Captain Face: a deliberately blank expression. Like mother, like daughter. Amari is hiding her reactions.

"I could prove myself a double agent," Widowmaker points out.

"We already knew you were a double agent, Amélie," Amari replies. "I spoke on your behalf anyway."

Nonsense. She can reveal Amari's real feelings with a little push.

Widowmaker laughs aloud, a low chuckle with just a hint of amusement to it that she's perfected over the years. "I see," she says when Amari raises an eyebrow. "You don't know, do you? Poor thing." She mock pouts.

"'Know'...?" Amari prompts.

Widowmaker leans forward and breathes, "I killed your mother."

Amari narrows her eyes. "I know exactly what you did to my mother," she says firmly. "I still vouched for you."

Widowmaker feels a flood of surprise and confusion wash through her. Amari remains infuriatingly unreadable, looking down from on high as Widowmaker flounders.

"We've been keeping food in the kitchen. Down that way, on the left. You can't miss it," Amari says into the silence, pointing farther down the hall. "I believe supplies have already been left in your bathroom. I will leave you to get settled."

Fareeha Amari walks away. Widowmaker backs into the room she's been given, closes the door, and smoothly folds to the floor, unsettled entirely.

~~~

She doesn't know how much time passes before she rouses herself to inspect the room. It is plain: plain bed, old military issue sheets, wooden desk empty and so close to the bed that it doesn't need a chair. She doesn't find cameras or microphones on a quick sweep, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.

The bathroom is small, but Widowmaker had no intention of luxuriating in it anyway. This is still basically enemy territory. She wipes the dirt of travel from her skin with water she can barely feel and rubs the cheap soap through her hair as quickly as she can. Her armor, too, is quickly rinsed, but she puts it back on damp rather than spend more time uncovered than she needs to.

Widowmaker curls up against the door she can't lock, where noises in the hallway will filter under the crack and alert her. She tries to doze, and loses track of time again.

~~~

Widowmaker's gotten back on a more even keel by the time Athena summons her for debriefing the next day. She only has to deal with Winston, who at least seems willing to work with her as a professional. He asks questions about her position in Talon and what their goals are, and Widowmaker finds herself almost surprised by how little she can actually answer. She'd known and not particularly cared that Talon didn't share a lot of information with her, but she'd never realized the full extent.

For example: "How big is Talon?" Winston asks.

"Big enough," says Widowmaker.

"What is Talon's goal?"

"I never asked."

"Wid- uh, Amélie, you need to give me something to work with."

"I was under the impression I'd already given you three thumb drives' worth."

A heavy sigh from the monkey. "Where was your main base?"

"They moved me a lot. I did not stay at one in particular."

"Where were _any_ of those bases, Amélie?"

Winston seems to suspect she's hiding information, and she doesn't disabuse him of the notion. Eventually she ends up giving him a list of targets and dates, successful or not, and he accepts that.

It's no exaggeration, for once, to say she's floored to find out how small Overwatch now is. She'd gambled on its not being big, but had also figured that since the original Overwatch was just a strike team it wouldn't be a problem. She hadn't expected the new Overwatch to actually _be_ the size of the original strike team: six members. Two of them are non-combatants. Fareeha Amari, apparently, hasn't even joined; she's technically on vacation leave and acting in an advisory position. This is a travesty. It speaks to their skill that they've been making so much trouble for Talon, but at the same time it's horrifying that Talon would be so weak.

It's been four days since she last ate, so she makes her way to the kitchen when Winston finally tires of beating uselessly at her impassivity.

The single eating area could easily hold three or four times as many people as are actually at the base right now. Some items in the refrigerator and the cupboards are labeled with people's names, but the majority of the bulk non-perishables are free for all. Widowmaker shakes her head at the two-dozen jars of peanut butter set aside for Winston.

She's debating starting some excitement by taking one, or one of the other labeled items, when a chipper voice behind her says, "I see you found the kitchen alright then, luv."

Widowmaker hasn't startled in years, and she doesn't do so now. She just looks over her shoulder and turns to face Tracer, who is standing maybe 15 centimeters behind her.

"Madame Amari directed me. It was not hard," Widowmaker says. She's not in the mood to play right now.

"'Madame'?" Tracer parrots, making the word tonally unpleasant in a way Widowmaker hadn't realized was possible. "That's cute, you being all posh. So am I 'Madame Oxton' then?"

" _You_ are an annoyance," Widowmaker tells her. Hoping giving Tracer what she wants will make her go away faster, she adds, "by choice."

"Aw, I feel like you're hinting at somethin' there but I'm afraid I'm just not getting it, luv," Tracer says, sickeningly sweet. She laughs and backs off a few steps, hands up. "No need to look at me like that, luv, I get it." There's a flash of blue, and Tracer's gone.

Widowmaker turns back to her less-than-appetizing options and picks up a leftover block of cheese. It looks awful, as does the sandwich meat, but what she needs right now is calories and protein and she's decided the peanut butter isn't worth an angry gorilla.

"One more thing," Tracer chimes over her shoulder. Widowmaker still doesn't jump, just clenches her jaw and turns around again.

"What, chérie?" she asks. It sounds like two individual sentences with no question marks between them, because she doesn't actually want the answer.

"You and I both know you can't catch me coming or going, luv," says Tracer, and she looks so different without the smile. "So if you were thinkin' of sneaking around or trying anything funny, well. Just keep that in mind. You'll never know where I might be."

Widowmaker remains impassive. She's been expecting this.

Tracer looks down at the cheese and awful bologna in her hands, looks back up with an expression like this is extremely amusing, and adds, "Breadbox is in the corner over there, luv."

Then she's gone again. Widowmaker could do with less confrontations ending in food-related advice. She ends up taking the ingredients, plus half a loaf of white bread, back to her room, but the idea of actually slicing the cheese up and assembling sandwiches sounds like too much work. She just alternates taking bites out of the cheese with eating slices of meat and bread until she's reasonably gorged, then stretches out to sleep.

~~~

The first time Amélie met Angela was a formal function that she'd attended as Gérard's plus-one. Purple has always been her color: Gérard's tie matched the deep aubergine of her dress. He'd slipped his hand out of her grip when he introduced Angela, decked out in white and gold.

"I have heard so much about you, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie had said, genuinely delighted. "We should all aspire to do as much good for the world as you have."

"You flatter me, Mrs. Lacroix," Angela replied. She was giggling and slightly red-faced, and Amélie wondered how much of the champagne she'd had. "Mr. Lacroix has told me much about you, as well."

"Nothing bad, I hope?" Amélie teased, looking sidelong at her husband. He scoffed and put a hand over his heart, wounded.

"All quite good, I promise you," said Angela. "It's a pleasure to finally meet."

~~~

Most of the people Amélie knew haven't come back to Overwatch. Brigitte and Tracer are after her time. She had heard of Winston from Gérard, but never met him. She only knew Fareeha Amari in passing.

Reinhardt and Torbjörn she knew, and Widowmaker doesn't entirely relish the idea of seeing them again. It will be uncomfortable at best.

Reyes is gone. Liao, gone. Morrison is dead. Ana Amari is dead. Gérard is dead.

Widowmaker meets Angela Ziegler for the first time again two days after being formally allowed-- not accepted-- into Overwatch. Apparently the good doctor needs to get a baseline reading on her vitals, since she's been augmented so much from the human norm.

She remembers how awed she had been by a younger Angela, the hero. By all accounts, Angela has continued on the path she was on before. She dresses as an angel and brings people back from the brink of death, and takes aid to those who need it most. It's a lovely, perfect fairytale. Widowmaker resents her.

Angela doesn't notice Widowmaker when she comes to the doorway of the medical offices, so Widowmaker takes the chance to lean against the jamb and take in what she's seeing. Here is another part of the base fallen into disuse. Angela has clearly been working to make it useable again, but her efforts so far have only yielded an organized desk, two chairs, and an examination table. It's lucky there are so few Overwatch agents; if the doctor had to deal with more than one patient, there wouldn't be room. The rest of the area is free of dust but has been packed tight with all the detritus that can't yet be used. Widowmaker is sure the other rooms in the former medical wing are less densely packed but far harder to breathe in without having a coughing fit.

The woman herself is still a vision in white, almost unchanged in the decade since Amélie first laid eyes on her. She's working on something at the desk, bright blue eyes focused and intense. It looks like paperwork. Her ponytail falls forward softly around the edges of her face. This is a woman whom Amélie liked, once upon a time in another life.

"Bonjour, Dr. Ziegler," Widowmaker purrs, collected like Amélie wasn't.

Angela looks up. There's a moment where she looks startled, but composes herself back into perfect professionalism almost instantly. "Hello, Amélie," she says. It's gentle but firm. Widowmaker doesn't remember her ever speaking to Amélie like this.

"I was informed that you wished to examine me."

"Yes. Thank you for coming by." Angela's voice is doctor-at-work. Widowmaker dislikes how unfamiliar it is. She follows the doctor's orders to sit on the exam table, while Angela pulls up a new sheet and starts to make notes. The head of the stethoscope is a barely present pressure, but the heat of the doctor's hand holding it makes Widowmaker's nerves tingle.

As Angela notes down heart rate, blood pressure, pupil contraction, she frowns more and more. It's very subtle, but the wrinkling of her brow stands out on her otherwise smooth face. Widowmaker endures her unhappy gaze while holding a thermometer in her mouth, but decides enough is enough when the instrument beeps and Angela takes it back.

Widowmaker elegantly recrosses her legs and leans back on the exam table. "Do you not like what you see, chérie?" she asks.

Angela looks up from noting down her temperature. It appears to be 35 and change. Angela's frown deepens.

"No, I do not," the doctor finally responds. Hurtful. "You are aware that you should be unresponsive on the floor right now?"

"Clearly this is not the case," says Widowmaker.

"You are very blasé." Angela scribbles something down on her notes. "You have severe bradycardia, and your body temperature is dangerously low… your blood oxygen levels appear sufficient, so I'm also going to want to take some blood samples to determine the cause of your extensive cyanosis. To be quite frank, I do not know how you are functioning." She pulls on a pair of gloves and opens a mini-fridge hiding behind her desk.

"That's the purpose of having modifications, I believe," Widowmaker answers blandly.

Angela looks up from the vials she's organizing and tilts her head a little. "You're annoyed," she observes.

"Do you think so?" Widowmaker supposes she might be, a little. She can't walk through town without covering up her skin. She knows she's no longer normal.

Angela sighs and ties a rubber band around her arm. "These modifications you've had… do they have effects other than what I've listed?"

"I do not need to eat or sleep very often," Widowmaker answers. She keeps talking as Angela slides a needle into her arm and starts filling a vial. "I am less affected by stiffness, pain, cold… most forms of physical discomfort, really. No menstrual cycle, either. " She doesn't mention how she feels dead.

"I see…" Angela caps the first vial, dutifully copies down what Widowmaker said, and starts on a second vial. "How often do you eat, then?"

Widowmaker thinks about it. "One small meal a day," if she remembers to, "or a large meal every few days. I can go as much as a week if I gorge myself."

Angela looks bothered as she puts the second vial into the rack and starts writing again.

"If you keep making that face, it's going to get stuck like that," Widowmaker says with a smirk.

Angela's expression becomes blatantly unamused. She doesn't deign to reply, taking a third vial. "And your sleep schedule?"

"I can go several days without sleep."

Angela is silent as she finishes with the blood, removes the needle, and bandages the insertion point. The vials go back in the fridge. It's as she's snapping the latex off her fingers that she finally speaks again. "I must say, Amélie, this seems incredibly unhealthy. I have trouble believing that there are no adverse effects on your body."

"If there are, I have not noticed them," Widowmaker says, abruptly tired of the conversation.

"I would appreciate it if you were a little more cooperative," says Angela, turning away to deal with her clipboard again. "There is nothing I can do for a patient who does not care about their own well-being."

"Then there is nothing you can do for me," says Widowmaker. Angela spins to look at her. Oops. Angela is going to take that the wrong way. Widowmaker needs to make her focus on something else. She puts on her most cruel smile. "I did not come to Overwatch for medical attention, Dr. Ziegler."

Whatever Angela was about to say dies on her lips. She closes her mouth, opens it again and says, "Is it true, then? That you are hoping to kill more people?"

"You don't approve."

"You knew I wouldn't," Angela says harshly.

"I did," Widowmaker admits.

Angela's face does something complicated that Widowmaker can't read. "What happened to you, Amélie?" she asks.

Widowmaker doesn't know how to answer that. She laughs meanly. Angela doesn't look angry, though, or disgusted or disapproving. She looks sad. Widowmaker hops off the exam table as smoothly as she can.

"Is the examination done, Dr. Ziegler?" she asks at the door, making her own opinion quite clear.

Angela takes a moment, finally saying, "For now."

"Au revoir," says Widowmaker, and pretends not to flee.

~~~

The firing range is, as promised, not operational. What it is is empty. Widowmaker grudgingly gets Athena's attention, and follows her instructions to start putting the bare bones back together. An hour of mindless work, and then an hour of dozing in the darkened room. Calibrating the practice rifles. Dozing. Getting the practice bots back in order is going to take forever, but Widowmaker lugs some more low-tech targets into position. Dozes again. She loses herself in shooting for awhile.

~~~

Angela puts her head in her hands after Amélie leaves and releases all the air in her lungs in one long sigh. She shouldn't be doing this. It's been years since residency. Her work is in nanomachines and medical technology, not family medicine. But someone has to.

Someone has to.

Someone has to look at Amélie Lacroix and see how sick and tired she looks. It's dizzying, trying to reconcile her memories of Amélie, vibrant and warm, with the cold, indifferent assassin she just met. Amélie before had a Mona Lisa smile, gentle and beguiling; now it's sharp and quick and false.

She doesn't know what to think of the yellow eyes that watched her as she worked. They couldn't be more different from what she remembers.

Angela pulls out her hair tie and runs an agitated hand over her scalp. She'd been prepared to bury her feelings and be professional like Fareeha. She'd been _managing_ it, even, despite feeling increasingly worried, and then…

 _There is nothing you can do for me_.

Amélie had gone back to the cold murderer after, the woman Angela had expected to interact with and harden her heart against, but too late.

Angela could have sworn that her childish, hopeless infatuation with a married woman had died around the time she read the words _Missing, Presumed Dead_ , and faded over the years since. It seems to have been in hibernation, instead, and how is she supposed to feel now? Amélie's dark eyes and playful smile are superimposed over the blood and gunsmoke implied by her arrest warrants. It's all confused now, affection and disgust and that moment of intense vulnerability before Amélie had turned back into a proud killer. Angela regrets answering the recall.

She'll bury it. Angela can, _will_ be professional and treat her like a patient, and let the old feelings cool again in the face of this new Amélie who wants to kill people.

~~~

Reinhardt is significantly bigger than Widowmaker remembered, and she'd remembered him being quite large. He and Brigitte are eating breakfast when Widowmaker eventually remembers that she doesn't remember when she last ate. The old man dwarfs everything else so thoroughly that Widowmaker almost doesn't see the woman at his side.

It's strange for Reinhardt to be so old. He's aged handsomely, still oozing vitality, but the wrinkles on his face and the white of his hair are undeniable.

"I was wondering when I would catch sight of you, Amélie!" He greets her with a smile. He is so loud.

"Monsieur Wilhelm," Widowmaker acknowledges him with a nod. "Madame Marceau." There is no smooth way to get to the cabinets or the fridge without approaching the pair.

"Surely we've known each other long enough to drop the formalities," Reinhardt says, face tensing for a moment. He glances down as Widowmaker comes closer and adds, "Surely the floors can't be that comfortable barefoot."

Widowmaker stops and looks down at herself. She'd honestly forgotten about surrendering her boots a few days ago. While she's thinking of a response, Brigitte asks, "Did you not like the shoes Winston brought you?"

Widowmaker wonders if he dropped them off in her room or if they've been sitting in the hallway for however long it's been since she holed up in the shooting range. Surely if she'd already been there awhile Athena would have told the gorilla to bring the shoes to her there instead.

"It's not as uncomfortable as you seem to think," she says, resuming her path to the cabinets. Reinhardt and Brigitte exchange a glance but they say nothing. Widowmaker focuses on her rummaging and wonders if there's any peanut butter that _hasn't_ been set aside for the monkey.

"There is food to spare, if you wish to eat with us," Reinhardt offers. Widowmaker can't think of a single reason why he would want her to take him up on that, but turns to look at what's being offered. Bread, cheese, sausage; she's not even remotely surprised. It's not very different from the last meal she had, but already prepared and probably easier to chew.

"I suppose," she accepts, and Brigitte gets up to plate some food for her before she can even move.

"Sit wherever," Brigitte tells her, and puts the plate in front of her when she takes the chair farthest from Reinhardt's overwhelmingly friendly expression. Normally Widowmaker's biggest issue is understanding what subtle emotion is crossing a person's face; here, her problem is that she can read him unambiguously and what she's reading makes no sense. "-warm you up," Brigitte is saying, setting a mug of coffee in front of her. It's steaming. Widowmaker decides to let it cool.

"Merci," she tells Brigitte. She lets her gaze wander over the woman, and then over Reinhardt. He seems dressed as normal, but Brigitte's wearing a sweater. Widowmaker casts her mind back over the people she's seen here so far and tries to think if they've been dressed warmly. Is the base cold?

"How are you settling in?" Reinhardt asks.

Oh no. Small talk. "Well enough," says Widowmaker.

"It is good to be back among old friends, yes?" asks Reinhardt.

Ridiculous. Widowmaker smirks. "I have not had friends in Overwatch for a very long time."

Brigitte frowns and mutters, "Soyez sympa," under her breath. _Be nice_. Reinhardt chuckles good naturedly, much to Widowmaker's continued bewilderment.

"We are not friends with Talon, that is true," he says. Widowmaker is immediately certain this conversation is about to take a turn she doesn't want to stick around for, and tries to eat a little faster. "Perhaps I shouldn't expect you to see it so quickly, but you have already taken the first step towards your deliverance just by coming here."

Widowmaker swallows heavily. "'Deliverance'," she repeats incredulously.

"Give it time," says Reinhardt. "But know that, so long as you walk this path, it is my duty as a knight to assist you."

If Fareeha knew her crimes already, Reinhardt must know also. "Despite the things I have done to your friends?" Brigitte gives her a fierce look. Widowmaker takes another large bite, unbothered. Reinhardt looks sad.

"I did not say the path would be easy, mein freund," he says. The smile is gone. His words are gentle, almost quiet. And, abruptly, he smiles again, and his voice fills the room once more. "Speaking of difficult paths, how was your journey here? Surely we would have picked up on Talon activities nearby."

Widowmaker gives herself space to breathe by taking a large gulp of her coffee. It's still too hot, and she instantly feels sweaty. From anyone else, she would assume this had become a subtle interrogation, but she's not sure she wants to credit Reinhardt with that much guile.

"I was not nearby," she says carefully. "I travelled from Rome, by way of Barcelona."

"Ah, the ferry!" Reinhardt says. "It is not often I can travel by water. Not that the van doesn't have its own charms," he adds to Brigitte, "but it's not the same."

"It has better ventilation," Brigitte says.

This has the sound of an old argument, and Widowmaker is only more certain when Reinhardt's response is, "Have I not apologized repeatedly?" Brigitte just smiles. Widowmaker focuses on her food and hopes they'll carry on their conversation without her.

But of course, they don't. Reinhardt seems determined to include Widowmaker, no matter how prickly she gets. Talon agents never tried to interact with her when she wasn't on a mission. If that organization didn't have its days numbered, she would wish she was back there. As it is, she can only retreat to her room to sleep off the heavy sausages.

There is a shoe box at her door, as promised, next to the folded clothing she abandoned on her first day on base. Widowmaker takes it all inside, but doesn't bother to open the box before sprawling on the mattress and checking out.

~~~

Sometimes Widowmaker dreams of shooting. She looks down the scope and she can see _everything_ , every person, every little line on every little face, the tics in their gestures, the rise and fall of chests as they breathe.

She breathes.

The Widowmaker can pick a target, any target. Does she go for the head? The heart? She could take out an eye. She could make it slow, shoot them through the throat or in the gut. She decides when and how to take their lives, and her hands shiver with the rifle when it fires.

~~~

She's roused from her slumber by a knock at the door. Widowmaker is expecting Winston. She gets Angela instead.

"Salut, Dr. Ziegler," says Widowmaker, not sure what time it is.

Angela's tone is all professionalism. "Greetings, Amélie. I am still trying to make heads or tails of your results, but I have brought you some things in the meantime."

Among other things, Angela appears to be holding a sweater. It's navy blue.

"I did mention that I don't feel the cold, did I not?" Widowmaker asks with a raised eyebrow.

"And I'm sure I mentioned that I doubted exposing yourself to harsh conditions was good for you, whether you can feel it or not," Angela replies. Her tone brooks no argument. "We can not yet properly heat the base and you are walking around with your chest and back completely exposed. And still no shoes on!" she adds as she realizes it. "You do realize that winter is coming?"

"I have worn this armor in driving snow," says Widowmaker.

"Absurd," Angela scoffs. She disentangles the sweater from what turns out to be a sheaf of papers and shoves it into Widowmaker's arms. "I have also written up a dietary schedule. Bizarre as your blood work may be, the signs of malnutrition are textbook."

Widowmaker is barely listening, holding the sweater up to examine it. The navy blue is broken up by a white diamond pattern and red highlights. It looks like something an old woman would wear.

"Is this one of yours?" Widowmaker asks suspiciously.

"It's what I had available," Angela says defensively.

Widowmaker grins. "You must like me," she purrs.

Angela goes red and flustered. It's lovely. "I care for my patients!" she insists. "Unlike your last employers, who would send you into blizzard conditions wearing _that_ ," she flaps the papers at Widowmaker's entire body, "sorry excuse for armor. It makes me cold just to look at you." She folds her arms with finality. " _Honestly_. If you weren't walking around as you are, I would say you look terminally ill. You can't expect me not to worry about it."

Widowmaker gives the sweater another look-over before tossing it back towards the bed. "Clearly the augmentations my last employers gave me are more than keeping me alive."

"Clearly your last employers should be charged with medical misconduct in addition to everything else they are guilty of," Angela shoots back.

Widowmaker opts not to ask Angela what she herself should be charged with. "It is very sweet of you to worry, chérie, but I can take care of myself."

"At least consider my suggestions," Angela says, handing over the schedule.

"Consider them considered," says Widowmaker.

~~~

The watchpoint must be colder than Widowmaker realized. It's as uncomfortable as expected during midday or when she's working, but at rest, the sweater doesn't overheat her at all.

~~~

One day when she comes to the shooting range, Torbjörn is there, working on the training bots. For the first time, Widowmaker is glad about the cheap sneakers she's wearing; the chill from the floors may not bother her, but it would be inconvenient if she stepped on one of the various bits strewn about.

It's a little annoying that she won't be able to shoot today.

"I was wondering when I'd see you around," Torbjörn says, preventing her from quietly turning around and leaving. He doesn't take his hands out of the guts of the robot he's messing with. "Reinhardt tells me you're getting comfortable here."

This feels like a trap. If she recalls correctly, Torbjörn is only slightly more subtle than Reinhardt. "I suppose so," she says, though she actually wouldn't say anything of the sort.

"Good, good," he mumbles, reaching to grab one of his tools and wrenching something loudly in the bot. Widowmaker shuffles through her memories; this isn't Torbjörn's friendly voice. It's too gruff. Down to business, despite the friendly words. "But while you're getting comfortable, I hope you don't think that means you can just do anything you want." Ah, there it is. "If you're thinking of doing something troublesome, you should think again."

He's trying to be subtle, but he's worse at it than Tracer was, and Tracer wasn't good at it. Widowmaker plays dumb and asks, "How do you mean, 'troublesome'?"

"I mean," Torbjörn grunts, finishing whatever he's doing, "that if you're thinking of betraying us," he slips the outer panel back into place with more force than necessary, " _again_ ," he doesn't look at her as he screws the robot shut, "then there's going to be trouble for _you_ , too." The training bot whirrs to life and turns towards Widowmaker. It would be more intimidating if it could fire anything but light.

Widowmaker schools her face into a pout as Torbjörn heaves himself off the ground and walks to the next bot over. "I have done nothing since coming here to prompt this."

Torbjörn says nothing. Widowmaker watches the little man's back as he opens up the next robot and starts examining the innards. She's just wondering if the conversation is actually over when he sighs.

"We thought you were dead, Amélie," he says, "but you showed up again as a traitor. You should've known you wouldn't be welcomed back with open arms."

"But of course," Widowmaker agrees. "I am curious what I have done that everyone feels the need to remind me of this."

"Nothing," Torbjörn tells her. "That's the problem." Whatever that means.

~~~

Widowmaker can't use the shooting range while Torbjörn is working there. She supposes at least she has a functioning range to look forward to, or possibly a partially functioning one if Torbjörn was only there for an excuse to talk to her.

In the meantime, she needs a new place to hide out. Her room is small and, more importantly, it's stuffy. Luckily, the watchpoint has a variety of tall, open rooms. The hanger. The non-restricted work areas. Widowmaker makes like a spider and crawls up into the eaves. She's almost certainly not supposed to be up here, but there's no logical reason to assume she's _banned_ until someone actually tells her so.

She's bored. Finding the best lines of sight on the walkways and the girders kills some time. No one pays attention to her if she stills whenever she hears someone coming. It's perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading~ If you're enjoying what you're seeing so far, please drop a kudos or a comment. I love and cherish every single one!
> 
> Chapter 3 will be up next Friday.


	4. Not A Bad Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back for another chapter! Thanks again for the support, guys~
> 
> Quick content warning: this chapter has a short reference to child death. It's quick and there are absolutely no details given.

Widowmaker's first month at Overwatch is nearly as mind numbingly boring as being with Talon. Admittedly, it's still _better_. At Talon, she would be suffering awful or botched jobs instead of just the dull ache of tedium. There would be a schedule and training, and she would've had at least one useless psych session by now. With Overwatch, she's questioned and watched, but the only schedule is Angela's loose diet and whatever physical activity Widowmaker feels like engaging in to fend off the monotony. Widowmaker hasn't gotten in trouble yet, either.

When she's tired of being interrogated or warned off or, in Reinhardt's case, aggressively befriended, Widowmaker grapples her way into the ceilings to hide. It's a pleasant area to doze, cool and quiet and quite comfortable in Angela's sweater.

She hears voices coming and slits an eye open, peering over the side of the I-beam she's sprawled on. It seems today's entertainment will be Oxton and Amari, who's just returned after two weeks back in Cairo.

Widowmaker can see them before she can understand the conversation drifting up. Oxton looks like her usual peppy self. Amari walks like she can't quite put down the soldier persona, but Widowmaker has noticed that she definitely smiles more when she doesn't think Widowmaker is around. She's naturally subtle and hard to read, but she's not permanently inscrutable.

"- it's not like they let you fly if you've got a pacemaker or sommat, either, and I guess they figured my condition was a bit worse'n that," Oxton is saying. "Don't get me wrong, what I do now's a right blast, but it's a shame all the same."

"I'm sorry to say you would probably meet the same resistance if you tried to get into a Raptora suit," Amari says.

"You don't think they'd wanna risk me scrappin' another piece of military equipment?"

"'Scrapping'? I thought the Slipstream had a malfunction."

"Still trashed, wasn't it?"

"Was that ever confirmed?" Amari asks. Oxton tilts her head quizzically. "The fighter was never found. For all we know, it's perfectly intact and functional somewhere on Mars."

Oxton laughs. "Maybe I should see if Winston's willing to help me look for it there."

"It would be a journey of exploration," Amari says dramatically. "Surely he wouldn't want to pass up the opportunity."

"I'll try'n remember to ask him about it."

They're getting towards the hanger exit. "You should come by Cairo when I'm back there," Amari is saying. "You couldn't pilot a suit, but I might be able to pull some strings and take you flying someti-" and her words blend into white noise. Widowmaker watches them walk out the door and closes her eyes again.

~~~

"It's perfectly good work, but you should either be more unorthodox or less. Your caution is obvious," Torbjörn says, crossing his mismatched arms with finality. This is the first thing in the last half hour of mechanical debate that Widowmaker has understood.

"You sound like you're calling me a coward," Brigitte protests.

"No, no, not at all," Torbjörn blusters. He's either upset at being misunderstood, or upset that Brigitte has interpreted him perfectly. Widowmaker isn't sure. "You do very good work, especially considering your education, but you try to hide it and do work that looks like what any student could do. Put your own spin on the work."

"Torbjörn? Advocating unorthodoxy? I never thought I'd see the day!" Reinhardt proclaims.

"I couldn't have made half of what I did if I stuck to other people's blueprints, you know," Torbjörn points out. He gestures with his claw prosthetic for emphasis. "And a fat lot of good it did, in the end."

"Oh, it did plenty," says Reinhardt.

"The thing is," Brigitte interjects, "that I don't understand the Crusader armor well enough. It needs upgrading, but it's irreplaceable. There's no prototype, no backup, no spare material for me to experiment with-" She's pacing.

"I can do something about that, at least," Torbjörn interrupts, drawing her attention back. He strolls over to the closest terminal and hops onto the box they've set up in front of it. "I'd forgotten until you brought it up, but," he plugs something into the terminal. Widowmaker can't see what he's pulled up from her angle, but Reinhardt and Brigitte lean in to look over his shoulders. "I found my old schematics. The designs for the original Crusader armor are gone, but I think you'll be able to reverse engineer them with a little effort."

Brigitte's voice sounds suspicious. "Is this a pop quiz?"

"No!" Torbjörn protests. "No, I just want to see what you can do with these."

"It _is_ a test!" accuses Brigitte.

There is no answer from Torbjörn, but Reinhardt laughs hard when the man pushes his way past them to get away from the computer. "Get your own squire!" the talking mountain says, loudly enough that he may as well be talking right next to Widowmaker.

"I'm not trying to steal your 'squire'," Torbjörn protests. He turns to Brigitte and immediately adds, "Is this man seriously still calling you his squire?"

"Well, I _have_ been learning from him," says Brigitte. Widowmaker thinks she sounds a little embarrassed, which is the emotion she remembers feeling whenever Reinhardt would try to bring her into his medieval world.

"I thought 'squires' were usually learning combat," Torbjörn says.

"It hasn't been my first priority," Brigitte admits, "but I've already got the muscle for it," she adds, flexing an arm proudly.

"Working the forge'll do that," Torbjörn nods sagely. "Anyway," he adds, turning back to Reinhardt, "you know full well that I don't take apprentices, or squires, or whatever you want to call them."

"No, no, of course not," Reinhardt agrees glibly. "You just ask about what Brigitte's working on every time we talk for no reason."

"Professional curiosity is a reason!" Torbjörn defends. "You've got a good head on your shoulders," he says to Brigitte, "I'm just seeing what it can do. Maybe give a few pointers if anything jumps out at me."

"Julia tells me he put a picture of your engine patches on the refrigerator next to little Maja's latest drawings," Reinhardt pretends to whisper.

"It was good work," Torbjörn grumbles.

"It was jury rigged," Brigitte says.

"Exactly!" says Torbjörn.

"A dual apprenticeship is nothing to take lightly," Reinhardt says proudly. "You'll have to work very hard."

"It's not an apprenticeship, you oaf," Torbjörn argues. "I don't. Take. Apprentices."

"Medieval squires learned how to take care of their armor, didn't they?" asks Brigitte.

"Indeed they did!" Reinhardt agrees. "I am not opposed to your choice."

"Maybe if you knew more about how to do that I wouldn't have had to fix yours so much," says Torbjörn pointedly, still looking at Reinhardt.

"What can I say?" Reinhardt shrugs. "It is not my strong suit to keep armor together. It is to take it apart."

"Perhaps you could stop taking _mine_ apart and destroy the enemies' instead," grumps Torbjörn.

"But then what would I need you for?" Reinhardt asks.

~~~

Angela left the same day Amari did, and returns several days later. Widowmaker watches the warm reunion dispassionately. She can't imagine hugging a person anymore, though she knows she and Gérard used to hold each other all the time. Now, it would be too warm to bear.

She supposes it's fitting that Angela and Fareeha would be so close. Widowmaker has to admit that the younger Amari has taken to the mold of a hero quite well. She's almost disgustingly noble. She's kind, and polite even to Amélie on her worst days, and if the stories are to be believed then she's self-sacrificing as well. It figures that that would be Angela's type. Someone _good enough_ for the angel of the battlefield.

As if to drive the point home, when the conversation comes close enough, Widowmaker hears Angela saying something about helping children at an orphanage. Amélie can envision it clearly: Angela in one of her soft sweaters, surrounded by snot-nosed, grateful children. A photographer would take a picture and put it on a poster to solicit donations.

Widowmaker thinks she might've wanted kids once, back when Gérard was alive. She's killed at least two since then, indirectly. Angela would be sickened to hear about the collateral damage. Amari can't know, or she'll certainly rethink her choice not to arrest Widowmaker on the spot. Oxton might just shoot her.

Whenever Widowmaker shows herself, it seems like these people are surprised to realize the nature of what they've let slither into their base and nest in their rafters. She is cold, and she is cruel, and she has killed many, many people. They all claimed to know this when they let her in, but it always leads to shock and upset when they're reminded. How annoying.

~~~

Angela finds that coming back to Overwatch the second time is almost harder than the first. A fresh wave of uncertainty bears down on her in the days leading up to her return trip and the only thing that makes her step onto the plane is the fact that she'd promised herself she'd see this through.

The unease abates a little when she actually reaches the Watchpoint and the quiet, casual atmosphere surrounding its few occupants. She runs into Fareeha in the entryway, and they might as well be meeting at one of their homes.

"You took your time returning," Fareeha chides her. "I almost thought you'd abandoned me to do this on my own."

Angela laughs awkwardly. "I wouldn't do that to you."

It's more like an extended vacation than the resurrection of a fallen organization. Despite the work needed to make the Watchpoint habitable for more than a single person, there's a lot of downtime. There's discussion of logistics and recruiting and legal problems, but they're barely a step away from the sorts of daydream conversations people have about big plans that they'll never put into action. Despite the presence of two founders, no one here knows what they're doing with regards to recreating Overwatch.

Combine that with the fact that all the veterans-- and Fareeha counts, really-- know each other to a greater or lesser degree and this is basically an extremely illegal reunion.

Except…

Except for Amélie-- _Widowmaker_ , but Angela can't bring herself to think of her that way-- who was an acquaintance before and is a ghost in the Watchpoint now. She has apparently been so quiet that some of the others would suspect she wasn't on base at all without Athena's assurances. She shows up when called, and otherwise appears with no warning to eat or shoot for awhile before vanishing again.

Angela is nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen one quiet morning when Amélie walks in. To her surprise, Amélie smiles at her, and Angela smiles back instinctively. Nothing is said as Amélie fills herself a bowl of cereal and leaves. It was almost normal.

Amélie was wearing Angela's sweater. The civilian clothing makes a difference; despite the color, she looked more like a normal woman than Angela could ever have expected.

None of the Watchpoints ever felt this homey before, even when everyone was still getting along. Despite being full of veteran soldiers and support personnel, without the trappings of military discipline and urgency it's like the entire building is at ease. It's not that Angela feels at home, but even a world class assassin can _look_ like a civilian here, and that's something.

~~~

Winston asks her what drew her to join Talon, and Widowmaker says, "Nothing in particular," because she doesn't want to think about it.

"Surely they must've offered you something, if it wasn't their ideology," the monkey presses.

"You think Talon simply walked up to the wife of an Overwatch agent and bribed her?" Widowmaker asks. She makes sure to put an extra strong sneer into it, and doesn't consider the fact that Talon did, in fact, just walk right up to the wife of an Overwatch agent. They brought a black bag instead of gifts.

"Maybe not bribe," says Winston, leaning back in his tire and giving Widowmaker a measured look, "but something. You and Gérard were already married when you joined Talon?"

Widowmaker needs this conversation to end, viscerally, in a way she doesn't usually need anything. "Perhaps they offered me the chance to _do_ something," she tells him pointedly. "I did not come to Gibraltar for a vacation."

"And you'll be sent on a mission when I have one to send you on," Winston says. There's a surety to it, like he's growing into the idea of being in charge of this joke of an organization.

"You can not possibly be filling up your needs so easily," says Widowmaker.

"We don't have that many jobs," Winston clarifies. He reaches out with a foot and pulls up what looks like an extremely complicated bubble map. "We're aggregating information, weighing the pros and cons of recruitment attempts, and deciding what issues need us and where we can do the most good. Overwatch, in its current iteration, is very young. Be patient."

Widowmaker is not overjoyed to be lectured by an ape. "I have been very patient."

"You're not the only one who's frustrated at not being able to do more." Winston's deep voice rumbles ominously, "Even if what you want to do isn't the same as the rest of us."

Widowmaker's only response is to huff.

"Maybe if there was something you cared about other than killing people, I could find something for you to do," Winston prompts.

"You can not be surprised when the predator in your midst wants prey," says Widowmaker.

"I wouldn't know. I'm an herbivore," says Winston. "Work with me, Amélie. There has to be something."

Nothing he can give her. "There is not."

His big hands fidget with one of the many discarded peanut butter lids. "Did you join Talon so you could kill people?" he asks.

"No," says Widowmaker. "I told you. There was no reason. I just joined."

~~~

Widowmaker is resting in the shooting range, training rifle on the floor next to her while the bots repair themselves from her run, when Amari's measured steps approach her. She makes sure to stand before Amari can tower over her.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" she asks when Amari steps properly into her view.

"I have some questions for you," Amari says.

"I guarantee no answers," says Widowmaker, scooping the rifle back up and turning to the static targets so Amari won't get the mistaken impression that she's invested in this conversation.

She makes two shots, perfectly centered, before Amari speaks again.

"Winston tells me he spoke to you a little about your defection to Talon."

Widowmaker's heartbeat is even. She puts another little hole in the target. It's too easy when they're still.

"Only a very little," she confirms.

Amari taps something on the console, and a second row of targets lines itself up. Widowmaker hadn't realized Torbjörn had fixed more than one aisle.

"You were not a member of Talon when you married Gérard Lacroix," Amari says.

"I was not." She shifts her aim to the next target and fires. Dead center.

Amari fires three times into her own target. They're not as perfect as Widowmaker's, but she's not a bad shot either. "Was Gérard in Overwatch when you married?"

"Yes," Amélie says. "But not when he proposed." There was no reason to volunteer that.

Widowmaker takes another shot. She waits, patiently, for the moment when this conversation will turn unbearable. Amari has already strayed into dangerous waters, and setting off a mine is inevitable. Amari takes another shot.

"You were not a sleeper agent," says Amari.

Two weeks is a comparatively short time, so Widowmaker thinks it's fair to exclude it. "I was not."

Widowmaker takes another shot. Amari takes another shot.

"What I can't help but wonder, then-" Amari starts. Widowmaker fires early, cuts her off with the noise to delay the inevitable. Her shot is off-center. Unacceptable. Amari continues, "From what I remember, you and Gérard seemed like a happy couple. Were you faking that happiness?"

Widowmaker puts the training rifle down gently, pulls her lips back into the widest, most genuine smile she knows how to make, and turns to face Amari. Amari leans away a little.

"I am always faking happiness, chérie," she purrs. It's gratifying to have Amari at a loss for words for once. Widowmaker keeps smiling as she grabs the sweater she'd hung over the rifle rack and sashays out of the room.

~~~

Widowmaker wakes up unsettled by dreams she can't remember. Her heart beats. Her breaths are even. Her hands shake too badly to put her shoes on. The feeling fades.

~~~

"- but he's really the only prospect right now," Winston is saying as he and Oxton lumber through the open workspace.

"You've gotta be jokin'!" Oxton exclaims. It echoes. "I know Lúcio sets a high bar, but he's not the only capable person in the world."

"He's the only one I've found who isn't already attached," Winston clarifies. "Russia and South Korea are producing some very capable people, but I doubt they'll leave their militaries to help us."

Oxton makes a thoughtful hum. "Maybe make a deal with 'em? We'll help you, you take care of Overwatch business in your area? 'Could have agents spread around the globe instead've gatherin' everyone in one place. Lets Fareeha go back to Egypt, McCree can do whatever he's doin' across the pond…"

"It solves the recruitment issue by replacing it with a bureaucratic nightmare," Winston points out. "Especially with the Petras Act still in place." A sigh rumbles out of him. "I don't know how Jack dealt with all these logistics. Being a researcher is a lot less work."

"If you get tired of it, we could always skip out," Oxton suggests cheekily. "Look for the ol' Slipstream, see if it ended up on Mars or somethin'."

"What are you talking about?" Winston's voice drifts back as he gets out of sight.

"I think you'd be able to build a rocket to Mars-" Oxton starts, but Widowmaker doesn't hear the rest of the sentence.

~~~

"Amélie?" a voice calls up from the ground floor. Widowmaker slits an eye open and shifts just enough to look down over the edge of her perch.

"Salut, Mercy," she greets. The doctor is looking up at her incredulously.

"Were you asleep?" Angela asks.

"Non," Widowmaker says, which is technically not a lie if you don't consider dozing to be full sleep.

"You spend a lot of time up there," Angela observes. "Is there something wrong with your room?"

"Non," Widowmaker repeats. "I simply like it up here, spending time with the other spiders."

"I thought you were afraid of spiders," says Angela.

"When I was a child, yes," Amélie says. "They terrified me. I was told that they feel no emotions. Their hearts never beat."

There's a moment and then Angela says, "That's not how a circulatory system works, Amélie."

Widowmaker frowns. "Did you need something, Dr. Ziegler?"

"Yes. If you are doing nothing else, and it doesn't seem like you are, I would like to get some more blood samples."

"Acknowledged." Widowmaker attaches her grappling hook and slides carefully down. The sneakers don't grip the wire the same way that her boots did.

"It's just," Angela says as Widowmaker retracts the cable, "that's a very strange and incorrect thing to say to a child. Who told you that nonsense?"

"I don't remember." It was her older sister. Widowmaker starts walking towards the hall to medical.

"Bugs have open circulatory systems, but it still requires a heartbeat."

"Spiders are arachnids, not bugs," Amélie corrects curtly.

"Do you think I became a doctor without taking basic biology?" Angela asks. "I know. It is still the same system. Their hearts beat. And how would one even know if spiders feel emotions? They're spiders."

Widowmaker can't believe they're having this conversation. "In the moment of the kill, they feel alive," she says.

"I suspect they are just feeling 'guten Appetit'," says Angela.

"How would you know?" asks Widowmaker. "You're no spider."

"Neither are you," Angela points out. Widowmaker doesn't feel like arguing.

~~~

Fareeha's room is more personalized than Angela's, despite the fact that Angela is theoretically supposed to stay at Gibraltar more. Fareeha's not sure whether to put that down to Angela's reluctance regarding the organization's revival, or if it's just that Fareeha has mastered the art of bringing a shoebox's worth of personal effects wherever she's stationed and making the most out of them. It feels both strange and appropriate to put pictures from the old Overwatch up in the new one.

Barracks that look too much like barracks aren't fantastic for one's mental health. Angela probably spends more time here than in her own rooms for that exact reason. At least, when she's not in medical or making phone calls or doing some other sort of work.

Angela is doing work now. Fareeha, in between checking what's been forwarded to her personal mail and catching up on the news, has watched her hands tighten more and more in frustration. She's going to have a terrible neckache, hunched over the data pad like that, and half her hair is rumpled between her fingers instead of pulled into her ponytail like it was when she started.

Fareeha stretches a foot out across the bed to lightly kick Angela in the knee. Angela startles, and winces.

"Was that the best position to spend half an hour in?" Fareeha teases.

Angela groans, rubbing at the muscle between shoulder and neck. "It was not."

"Take a break, you workaholic."

"Are you taking a break from your work?" Angela asks.

Fareeha looks down at her tablet. There is a Helix Security update open on it. "Let's both take a break," she amends.

Angela sighs. "It's frustrating," she says, closing the pad and setting it aside. "Nothing's going to be different until the next tests are back, but I keep staring at the data as if it will change."

Ah. "Amélie again?"

"Amélie again." Angela pauses to stretch. "Whatever augmentations she received from Talon, they're nothing like current medical technology. I have to assume it's all experimental."

"Unsurprising," Fareeha judges aloud. "If they are trying to get an advantage over world law enforcement agencies, they would want to be on the bleeding edge. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that they've recruited from individuals who were perhaps," she struggles with her word choice and settles on, " _dissatisfied_ with the limits imposed on legitimate professionals. They might have tried to build off other research that was already pushing ethical boundaries. Athena's footage of the Reaper for example: his physical abilities are reminiscent of the Americans' experiments during the Crisis, but even desperation would never have pushed them to try for controlled disintegration. I certainly can't imagine what sort of person would test that idea on a living being, or who would willingly sign up as a test subject."

Angela frowns deeply. "Neither can I," she says.

They've known each other for long enough that Fareeha can tell Angela's a little more disturbed than she expected her to be, even considering how disturbing the idea is to begin with. "Tell me what's bothering you the most. _Other_ than the fact that Amélie is a medical mystery."

Angela huffs. "I can't separate the two. It is not just that her augmentations make no sense, it is the _way_ in which they make no sense. There are chemicals in her blood samples that I can't identify or even guess the purpose of. I'm actually calling in a favor with a friend in Oasis to get a more in-depth analysis."

"All you have told me is more of how she's a medical mystery," Fareeha points out flatly.

"Apologies. It is… what you said earlier," Angela looks down at her hands, fidgets at the edges of her nails. "'Who would willingly sign up as a test subject'? Most of the time, I can see her as exactly the sort of person who would let herself be subjected to such tests, if for no other reason than… than," Angela struggles and blurts out, "apathy! She doesn't care about anything. She is cold! Not literally. Well. Not _only_ literally."

"She told us, when she first came in, that the only thing she cared about was killing people."

"So Winston told me," Angela agrees. "And most of the time I can believe it. But then sometimes she acts more human, more like the woman I met before. I can't say that we were close back then but…" the energy leaches out of Angela's voice and she sounds small as she says, "she's like an entirely different person. It would be easier if those two people were entirely different, but there's just enough that's similar that I can't find where Amélie Lacroix ends and the Widowmaker begins."

Fareeha lets the statement sit, waiting to see if Angela will say anything else. It seems like she has something more but is trying to think about it.

Sitting across from her on the bed, Angela seems to give up. "I just feel like I'm missing something important," she says, sounding defeated.

"You are not the only one," Fareeha reassures her. "Widowmaker is not what we expected her to be."

"I wonder what the others think of it," says Angela.

"Ask," Fareeha suggests. "I know Reinhardt has been trying to reach out to her, though I gather results have been mixed."

"It's too bad we have no one who knew her better to compare."

There's silence, the type that happens when two people are leaving room for the knowledge both of them know and don't want to say for risk of starting a conversation no one wants to repeat.

When the moment passes, Fareeha asks, "If you could figure out what you're missing, what would you do with that information?"

Angela thinks. "I don't know," she finally admits. "It would depend on what the missing piece was, I believe. Maybe I could help her."

Interesting. It's not a strange sentiment for Angela, but somewhat unexpected in this context. "You think she is in trouble?" Fareeha asks.

"I don't know," Angela says again. "Amélie Lacroix didn't seem like a killer.  If she turned to Talon willingly, then so be it, but if," Angela breathes deeply, steeling herself, "if there was something else to it, then I need to know."

If there was some nebulous _else_ , Fareeha needs to know too, but she thinks they may be coming at it from different angles. Fareeha wants to prevent there being more Widowmakers. Angela… "You want to save her," says Fareeha.

"I want to save everyone." It's said almost flippantly, but there's a slight edge of self-deprecation that Fareeha remembers in retrospect from her mother. It's not the same sort of jaded, but it's there.

It's not like Fareeha can't empathize with the sentiment. They would both save the world, if they could only get the chance to do so.

"But why do you want to save _her_?" Fareeha asks. "Specifically?"

"Because I-" Angela falters, "because I knew her. She was- Amélie was a good person. I know she's done terrible things, but I can't understand _why_ . We got along. I _liked_ her, genuinely, and it wasn't often that I _liked_ people in Overwatch. I got along with them, certainly, but there were," she waves a hand, "certain ideological differences that often made interpersonal relationships difficult." Fareeha can just imagine. "Amélie once told me... well, she didn't think I was naïve for wanting to solve things without violence."

Fareeha is quite aware of how Angela was often viewed by the older ranks of Overwatch, especially the soldiers. There were exceptions, but: ideological differences. She and Angela aren't always on the same page about these things, either, but they at least genuinely respect each other's ethics.

There's a slight undercurrent of something wistful in Angela's words. Fareeha asks, "Did you love her?"

Angela's silence could just be surprise, but it drags out and becomes damning instead.

"It's alright," Fareeha reassures her. "I just got the feeling-"

"No, it's-" Angela cuts her off, but struggles with her own words. "I didn't… know her well enough to- to say I _loved_ her. It was just," she's turning red, "she was kind and confident and funny and beautiful. It was just a crush! And anyway, she was married, and we didn't live near each other, and besides that she's very different now than she was so it-" She takes a deep breath, looking down at the covers. "It doesn't matter now. She's not the same."

What Fareeha wants to ask next is _Do you think there was something sinister in Amélie's change?_ but at this rate it's becoming an interrogation so she offers something instead. "She's usually very cold now, but occasionally she acts like she's traumatized."

"I noticed the same thing," agrees Angela. "She implied to me that she feels detached."

Fareeha nods. "She told me she pretends to be happy."

"I keep coming back to the augmentations, when I think about it," says Angela. "Informed consent is very important in medical ethics. I wonder just how much a patient _could_ have been informed, before agreeing to having something like that done to them."

"So she might not have known what she was getting into?" Fareeha clarifies.

"I don't see how she could have."

~~~

Widowmaker is allowed to borrow a child-locked datapad, which she's certain Athena is monitoring for any illicit communications, and entertain herself online. Carrying the thin thing into the eaves is awkward, but there are plenty of other places to hole up in the Watchpoint. She can tuck down into a lane in the firing range or behind the furniture in the common room, if she's alright with people spotting her, or in among all the things still in storage if she isn't.

Reading is a lot of effort sometimes. She's getting very good at one casual game after another.

"Tell me if you want to borrow headphones," Angela says once when she sees Widowmaker staring blankly at the screen.

Widowmaker blinks up at her, coming out of her daze. "How kind," she says. "What would I need headphones for?"

"Music?" asks Angela. She looks concerned.

Widowmaker remembers that she used to enjoy music. "I suppose," she says noncommittally.

~~~

Oxton is as loud on the phone as she is off it. Her greeting to the person at the other end echoes up through the hanger clear as day, snapping Widowmaker to attention.

At first, Widowmaker listens out of boredom. She could probably nap through the noise, but she'll take her entertainment where she can get it, and anyway she's curious about who Oxton is apparently updating on the Watchpoint's news. Then she slowly starts picking up on the darlings and the sweethearts and puts two plus two together, and then Widowmaker couldn't stop listening if she tried. Her blood is rushing in her ears.

Despite her high position, Amélie can see the gentle smile on Oxton's face. Her genuine laugh is softer than the jeering she does in combat. It's sweet. Widowmaker hopes Talon never finds out about Emily.

~~~

As a little girl, Fareeha had a jacket that she got as a gift. One of the inside hems hadn't been finished quite right, and whenever she wore it the rough edge of the cloth would scratch at the back of her neck. Analyzing Amélie feels the same: an apparently whole image, but something's incomplete that isn't apparent under casual scrutiny.

The whole images are these: Amélie Lacroix was the young wife of a young, talented Overwatch agent. They were happy, supportive, and by all accounts an idyllic love story. She got along well with her husband's coworkers, complimented Angela's work, and believed in the cause of world peace. Her husband was assassinated and she died young, kidnapped and presumably murdered as a warning to other agents.

The Widowmaker is a Talon agent, bloodthirsty, ruthless, and loyal. She was a sleeper agent who got close to the members of Overwatch, was activated to kill Gérard Lacroix, and has since then taken out more than her share of competent and visionary people in order to further Talon's mysterious agenda.

Amélie is ruthless, and bloodthirsty, and not loyal at all. She claims to care for and about nothing. She makes risky choices, with only the minimum effort put into acting as though she is looking out for her own best interests. Amélie is cold and cruel and emotionless, but sometimes her voice shakes and there are things she won't talk about.

Each, individually, seems a complete picture. The first she picked up when she was young, visiting her mother's work again during leave periods from the army. The second is the image she's gotten from her mother and from the reports of the Widowmaker's known kills and Gérard Lacroix's death. The third is the least consistent, the one she's putting together now, and the one that makes rough edges that pick at her consciousness.

Amélie Lacroix was a loving wife. The Widowmaker was either a sleeper agent from the start, or was loyal enough to kill her husband. Amélie says she was no sleeper agent, and the timeline makes it unlikely that she's lying about that, in which case the Widowmaker was a loyal convert except: the Widowmaker, Amélie, holds no loyalty to Talon except that purchased through the lives they gave her to take. Amélie Lacroix was either a fantastic actress hiding a deep and abiding sadism, or she was no killer. Amélie is certainly a killer, but she's no actress. Fareeha could believe that the Widowmaker would have been fanatical enough to get experimental augmentations for Talon. The idea that Amélie would do so is less easy to believe.

It adds up to a puzzle more complicated than Fareeha had expected, and somewhere in the finished picture are answers to a lot of questions about Talon. How they operate, how they recruit, how they seem to be so insidious now.

Unfortunately, the answer is locked up inside Amélie, and she seems reticent to share for whatever reason. It's certainly not loyalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading~ If you're enjoying this fic, maybe click the kudos button or drop me a quick comment to let me know. I love every single one.
> 
> See you all next Friday.


	5. Widowmaker Dreams of Killing People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for your continued support. I love you all and hope this story will continue to live up to your expectations.
> 
> Anyway it's really been going too smooth up until now, don't you think?

Reinhardt is being nice at her again. Widowmaker's not sure how much more of this she can take.

It's not that she wants him to be cruel, but it would make more sense. Torbjörn's caution and upset make sense. Oxton's warning and subsequent needling make sense. Amari is polite and, if not forgiving, at least not vengeful. Angela is nice. Reinhardt is aggressively cordial. She can't make sense of it.

Widowmaker has tried picking at his shell, looking for a reaction other than amusement or patient sadness, but it seems he's as solidly armored mentally as he is physically.

Widowmaker is feeling an emotion. It is bewildered frustration.

"Of course, you're not supposed to feed them, but I do not think anyone has told _them_ that," Reinhardt is saying.

"I don't want to go look for monkeys," Widowmaker says flatly.

"Whyever not?" he asks. "Tourists have been coming to Gibraltar for decades just to see the Barbary apes!"

"I am not a tourist."

"You are not a prisoner, either. You could go outside. The nature preserve is quite large, and very pleasant."

Widowmaker raises an eyebrow and a leg, drawing attention to the anklet.

Reinhardt scoffs. "Athena's radius is larger than you would think. I'm sure she would not take issue with your taking a short walk. Or!" he snaps his fingers, inspired, "if she does, one of us could accompany you! I would not be opposed to spending time with the animals."

"I've already spent time with them," says Widowmaker.

"Really? Did some of them come on base?" Reinhardt asks. "They do that sometimes."

"Non. One of them stole my fish and chips during my first day on Gibraltar," Widowmaker offers.

Reinhardt finds this suitably amusing. "I told you, they don't realize humans aren't allowed to feed them! It is a shame you lost your lunch, though."

"It's not," Widowmaker disagrees. "The food was vile."

This is even more amusing for some reason. "It has nothing on a good currywurst, that's for sure."

"Currywurst is also vile," Amélie says, just to be unfriendly. She's never had the stuff.

Her hostility hits his metaphorical shields and bounces right off. "Clearly you haven't had proper currywurst." Reinhardt looks thoughtful and adds, "I wonder if there is any way to get it here."

No. No more of this. "I am not accompanying you to see monkeys _or_ to get sausages," Widowmaker declares, standing up.

"Fine, fine, whatever you say," Reinhardt concedes. "If you change your mind, though…" He lets the sentence hang, since they both know how it ends.

Widowmaker walks away without another word.

~~~

For once, Widowmaker seeks out Angela. Brigitte has attempted to teach Oxton a little bit of French. Widowmaker is certain that Oxton's pronunciation will get infinitely better once Widowmaker isn't in the same room as her. There were only so many times she could correct the woman before she figured out that it was on purpose.

Point to Oxton: she has successfully gotten under Widowmaker's skin.

Angela is calm, her personality doesn't fill a room, and Widowmaker knows she can speak French more-or-less correctly. And since Widowmaker doesn't want to be alone right now, she makes her way to the medical office.

Over the weeks since her first visit, it's been cleaned up a little more. The clutter is organized. There is actually enough room for Angela to entertain a whole three people at once. The doctor herself is wearing a sweater in the same fashionable vein as the one she lent to Amélie, but with a brighter color scheme.

Angela looks surprised to see her. That's probably fair.

"Is something wrong?" Angela asks.

"No, nothing is wrong," says Widowmaker. She needs an excuse. "I could no longer listen to Oxton and wanted to find out if you have results from the latest bloodwork." She could not care less about the latest bloodwork.

"Not yet. I'm afraid that will need a little more time," Angela tells her. "She's 'Oxton' now?"

Apparently. "Her code name is silly."

"That did not stop you before," Angela says with a sly smile. Widowmaker shrugs. "What was she saying that bothered you?"

"Nothing in particular." Widowmaker hops onto the familiar exam table. Angela turns in her chair to face her. "She has chosen to spend her afternoon mangling the French language unmercifully."

"I'm sure it's not intent-" Angela starts, but Widowmaker doesn't let her get farther.

" _No._ It is not her accent. She is doing it to annoy me." Widowmaker huffs and admits, "She is succeeding."

"Is this a regular occurrence?"

"The attempts to annoy me, or the success?"

"The attempts." Angela's little smile is getting wider and slightly wobbly. Widowmaker suspects she may be trying not to laugh. Damn her.

"She hates me," Widowmaker says by way of explanation.

To her credit, Angela doesn't try to deny the fact. "Perhaps she would antagonize you less if you did the same for her," she suggests.

Oxton's easy to read, though. And anyway, "I don't particularly care about making her hate me less."

"Except that she irritates you," says Angela.

"Only a little bit," says Widowmaker.

Angela makes a face. " _This_ is 'a little'?" she asks incredulously.

Amélie is never more than _a little_ irritated. "Does it not seem so?"

"For anyone else, perhaps." Angela crosses her arms and cocks her head, examining her. "For you, though, you seem furious."

What a surprising observation. "Aw," Widowmaker coos, "you can tell. How sweet."

Angela is easier to fluster than Oxton is. She gets a little red and turns back to her desk. "It is a simple extrapolation based on your regular emotional state," she rambles. "You are not as inscrutable as you seem to believe. How have you been eating?"

Widowmaker's not sure when she last did. "Fine," she answers.

"Any effects on your general energy levels?"

"I did not come here for a medical check-up, Dr. Ziegler." Widowmaker pulls up her legs, executes a graceful turn, and lays back on the table.

"I don't know what you expected, coming by a clinic," Angela insists. She turns back and notices Widowmaker getting comfortable. "Don't lay out there!"

"Why not?" Widowmaker asks. She closes her eyes.

"That is an exam table! I-" Angela's brain clearly catches up to her mouth, "I need that…" she trails off.

"What for?" Amélie persists. She makes a show of folding her arms behind her head.

"What if someone comes by?"

"There are only six other people at the Watchpoint," Widowmaker points out.

Angela hems and haws, and eventually settles on, "I _do_ still have work to do," rather petulantly.

"I am not stopping you," says Widowmaker.

Angela huffs. Shortly, there is the sound of a stylus beginning to tap against her tablet. Widowmaker slits an eye open. The tip of Angela's ponytail bobs across the top of her primary colored back. Amélie never saw Dr. Ziegler at work, but despite that it feels nostalgic. Angela doesn't seem to have changed at all. Widowmaker closes her eye again, curls up into a more comfortable position, and lets herself fall asleep.

~~~

It has been six weeks since Widowmaker came to Overwatch, nine since she left Talon, and she's starting to wonder if maybe she should have just taken her chances with freelancing. If the Reaper can get work as a solo mercenary, it clearly can't require that much in the way of interpersonal skills. She probably could've done it.

Luckily, Athena finally summons her for an op. Widowmaker almost feels giddy.

When Widowmaker-- sans sweater and thus as close to battle-ready as she can reasonably get with most of her equipment locked away-- arrives at the living space Athena's guided her to, Reinhardt and Winston are arguing. Considering both of the personalities involved, the fact that it's not audible from down the hall probably means this should be qualified as a slight disagreement instead.

A few moments is enough to gather that Reinhardt believes he should be going on this mission and Winston thinks he should be kept in reserve for more significant objectives with less of a need for subtlety. Amélie doesn't pay much attention, because when she gets through the door she can see that her gear is neatly spread out on one of the tables. She makes a beeline for it, and when neither the gorilla, the crusader, or the AI go into high alert she starts checking through it. She puts on her visor and the world splits up into little pools of red. In the close quarters, it's completely useless, but the distant signatures scattered throughout the complex tell her it's still functional.

The large red gorilla shape turns towards her and says, "Sorry to make you wait, Amélie," as the much larger red human shape walks out the door. She deactivates the visor and looks between the two of them in real color.

"I am not bothered," she tells him, trading visor for rifle. She starts a functions check.

"I know this is sudden-" Winston starts.

"I am not bothered," Widowmaker repeats, working the action. "Brief me."

She seems to have interrupted Winston's flow. He makes a few _um_ noises before continuing. "I'm sending Tracer to defend a shipment. You're her backup," he says. "We've identified the most likely place for an attack to happen. The hope is to stop it without anyone noticing it's even happened."

"Acknowledged," Widowmaker says, setting the fully functional rifle back down. As promised, there are new crampon shoes available, cut low enough to not interfere with the tracker. She notes the lack of information in the briefing-- no location, identifying names, or description of the target-- and decides that between that and the short notice this is probably an attempt to keep her from leaking information to the enemy. Despite the free reign she's been given around the Watchpoint, they don't trust her. Fair enough.

"Are you ready to go?" Winston asks, but it's not Widowmaker he's asking. Oxton and Angela have entered the room together. Angela is fully kitted out in her angelic Mercy persona.

"Sure are, Winston!" Oxton confirms. She looks just like she has every time that she and Widowmaker have clashed on the battlefield.

Widowmaker finishes getting the second shoe on and stands. "It seems we are working together this time," she says.

"So I heard. Don't you think I'm too happy about that," Oxton tells her brightly. Widowmaker gives her snottiest smile in return, then turns to Winston.

"What are my parameters?"

"Um," Winston squints at her. "Don't kill any civilians?" Widowmaker graces him with her flattest stare. "Ah. Let Tracer engage the hostiles. Watch her back. We want to take any of them alive that we can, so you're strictly trying to protect her and the transport vehicle."

"If anything goes truly wrong, Winston and I will be able to reach you inside of three minutes for backup," Mercy chimes in, adding sternly, "But I would rather it not come to that."

"Protect the target, minimize casualties, no collateral damage," Widowmaker summarizes. Ugh. "I can do that."

"Be sure to give Tracer the chance to capture them," says Mercy, specifically to Amélie. "I can help anyone she injures, but there is nothing I can do for them if they are dead. I am not a miracle worker."

"I will do my best, chérie," Widowmaker assures her. At the time, it's not a lie.

~~~

The mission goes smoothly, if not optimally. Widowmaker gets a nice high perch with a good view of the critical zone. From there, she can watch Oxton casually saunter around the area. Winston and Mercy are remaining in the airship high above, ready to call if Oxton and Amélie need to change positions.

When the attack squad comes to set up their ambush, Widowmaker radios the information to Oxton and keeps her sights on them as the blue flashes circle in closer. They're wearing Talon uniforms. The squad is a little big, but otherwise unspecialized.

The transport vehicle comes into the danger zone, bright yellow perking up at the edge of Widowmaker's visor. It's nowhere near the actual ambush, where Tracer rushes through and blasts one of the soldiers. "Engaging hostiles," chirps through the earpiece.

Widowmaker sights down on the man closest to the roadway, breathes in, feels her heart beat, shoots, heartbeat, breathes out as she reaims. Another heartbeat, another bullet. Half the squad is either in retreat or looks prepared to do so. Widowmaker aims at the woman coming up behind Tracer and pulls the trigger twice, rapidly, double-tapping just below the edge of her chestpiece. Good shot. Another Talon agent makes a break for it. She leaves the remaining two to Tracer and lines up on a third who seems to be trying to complete his mission. Her breathing isn't shaky, but she almost feels like it should be, with the warm satisfaction thrumming through her system with every pump of blood. Widowmaker smiles to herself. She shoots the last man. His corpse won't be visible from the transport. Perfect.

She takes aim back on Tracer just in time to see her struggling with the last agent. Widowmaker can already tell Tracer's not going to be able to subdue them. She holds her shot and disengages the visor, and is unsurprised when there's a bright blue muzzle-flash a moment later and the agent crumples to Tracer's feet.

Oxton is surrounded by seven bodies, looking down at the last one with a frown. She doesn't look particularly chipper. Widowmaker thinks she looks sad.

"Seems like I'm done here," Oxton reports. She sounds normal, despite her expression. Widowmaker watches her shake her head, and the crease of her mouth lifts back to a more professional neutral like a reset Etch-A-Sketch. "Couldn't catch any of 'em, though. Sorry."

"Verdammt," Mercy curses.

Reactivating the visor, Widowmaker watches the yellow target continue on its way. "The target is moving," she reports. "I am not seeing any suspicious movement along the rest of its route."

"Wait until it's through the danger zone and then move to rendezvous," Winston orders.

"Acknowledged." Her voice sounds lazy, drawled. Amélie feels like she's had a full body massage, or her first cigarette after going cold turkey for a week. It's intoxicating. She watches the vehicle go on its way, and swings out of her nest.

~~~

Once they're back on the ship, it's first things first: Mercy wants to check over Oxton. Amélie watches Angela fuss professionally, and feels something. She doesn't know what. It's souring the nice warm feeling she's had in the pit of her stomach since she shot down the fourth Talon agent.

It's a short flight back to Gibraltar, but that's more than enough time for Winston to debrief them. He takes notes with his hands and flies with his feet. It's a bizarre image.

Widowmaker goes first while Oxton gets the all-clear. She tells Winston about the, "Twelve man squad, a little larger than normal. Five managed to escape over the course of the altercation. I suspect they assumed that Overwatch's presence meant their operation was over."

"Any ideas about why they sent the bigger team?" Winston asks.

"They had no specialist." When Winston gives her a questioning look, she elaborates, "No one like me. No enhanced agents or mercenaries."

Winston hums thoughtfully. "Yes, I had thought they _would_ have someone like that." Amélie is surprised he let her know that much. She opts not to voice her suspicions on why _someone like that_ wasn't present. The Reaper has had more than enough time to decide enough is enough. It's that, or the target wasn't very important to begin with.

Angela and Oxton move closer to the front of the airship, and the sour feeling curdles inside her again. Angela, with her kind smile and her bright eyes, asking Widowmaker, of all people, to leave someone alive.

"It's a shame," Amélie says. "Had they had a specialist, they could have sent less agents. They wouldn't have lost so many."

Angela's mouth goes tight. "Indeed," she says. "I'm sorry to hear there was no way to subdue them."

"There might have been," Widowmaker says. "I did not need to shoot them in the head. Body shots are easier to hit." In the corner of her eye, she can see Oxton squaring up, but all her focus is on Angela's horrified expression. That's how it should be. "The first two were preemptive. They did not even know a fight had started."

On her far side, Winston says her name warningly. "You don't need to tell me this," Angela says shakily.

"Oh?" Widowmaker feels electric as she tears everything down around her. "You don't want me to tell you that I personally shot four of those agents?"

"Widowmaker!" Oxton says.

Widowmaker continues, purrs, "You don't want me to tell you that I enjoyed it?"

"That's enough, Widow!" Oxton pushes in between the two of them, shoving Widowmaker back. "You're done! Get!" She waves Amélie towards the back of the plane, away from Angela.

"Whatever you say, chérie." Widowmaker has to lean down to murmur it by Oxton's ear.

Oxton shoves her bodily, furious. "What is _wrong_ with you?" she demands.

Widowmaker laughs. She leaves them alone-- as alone as people can be in an airship-- and goes to lay out against a back wall and enjoy the residual endorphins. Her stomach feels full of butterflies. She can hear Oxton trying to comfort Angela, calling her luv, sweetheart, princess, while Angela tries to rebuff it and act like she's okay.

~~~

Widowmaker makes it off the plane and back to her room with no incident. For once, she _wants_ to be in her little barren pen, curled up on the thin sheets, sated.

The cool air of the base is nice after the relative warmth of the ship. Widowmaker lays her rifle on the old mass-produced regulation desk, pulls off the new shoes and the visor, and feels the thin gathered sweat chill and leave her. This is the best she's felt in awhile, despite the little weight like a stone still settled in her gut.

She gets several wonderful hours to herself, half-asleep in the satisfaction of a job well done, before there's a knock on her door. Widowmaker debates whether she'll answer it, and decides that the pleasant feeling has peaked and eased enough that it won't be disappointing if this conversation kills what's left.

It's Angela. She looks angry. The warmth floods out of Widowmaker's veins and leaves only the usual neutral chill behind.

"Dr. Ziegler," she greets, expression flat.

"Amélie," says Angela. There is none of her usual warmth. Definitely angry. "We need to talk."

Amélie leans against the edge of the door casually. "So talk."

She only recognizes the hesitation that had been in Angela's expression when it abruptly leaves. "I understand that this is not necessarily the easiest transition for you, and that you have not been in a situation where normal human interaction was the norm," Angela runs through the sentence, like the concession is a mere necessity on the way to what she actually wants to say, "but there is only so much misbehavior that I am willing to tolerate in the name of easing your reintegration."

Widowmaker raises an eyebrow. Predictably, it eggs Angela on.

"There is no call for you to be cruel," Angela says sharply. "An abrasive personality is one thing, God knows I've dealt with my share of those, but cruelty for cruelty's sake is beyond the pale. I can tell when you're trying to hurt me." The lead in Amélie's stomach feels a little heavier. "We can _all_ tell when you're trying to hurt us, and it needs to stop."

It takes a second for Amélie to unstick her jaw enough to respond. "You knew what I was when you let me into your organization." There is no emotion in her voice.

"I knew you _before_ ," Angela says, the first time that either of them have acknowledged their previous acquaintance. "The Amélie I knew did not try to hurt her friends."

An emotion hits Amélie, and she can't identify what it is beyond the fact that it is overwhelming. In the moment, she hates Angela, just a little.

"The Amélie you knew is dead," she snarls, and closes the door in Angela's face.

~~~

Amélie feels sick.

~~~

"I thought we were doing so well!" Angela is saying. Or, more accurately, despairing. Fareeha is sitting at Angela's desk while Angela herself paces. "We had conversations, _several_ conversations, where she seemed okay! We were getting along. And then suddenly she is attacking me. Out of nowhere!"

"She had already told us she enjoyed killing," Fareeha says. It's definitely not the right thing to say, but there is no right thing to say here. _I already knew she was an asshole_ , is definitely the least right thing to say.

"It's not _what_ she said," Angela argues, turning to face Fareeha properly. "At this point, I'm not entirely certain I can trust anything she says when she's trying to- to- to _needle_. She is choosing the thing she knows will cause the most pain, not necessarily the thing that is true."

Fareeha controls her disagreeing frown. That's an overly optimistic assumption, in her view, but she knows Angela's bias. "It's not necessarily false, either."

"That's not-" Angela makes a frustrated noise. "Opinions and poor morals can be changed. That can be worked on. She is being deliberately sadistic to people who are trying to help her, though."

"Unkindness is hardly the worst of her sins, I'm afraid."

"It's not the 'unkindness'," Angela says, dragging a tired hand down her face. "It's the unwillingness to change. I thought, maybe, when she came here that it meant she might be open to the idea, even a little. She could have become a mercenary, or joined with other criminals, if she wasn't happy with Talon. But she came back to _Overwatch_. And she acts like she wants nothing more than for us to throw her out."

Fareeha takes a deep breath. There's nothing to say here that will actually help. She wasn't witness to Angela and Amélie's interactions, good or bad. She can understand Angela's logic. There's probably psychological explanations for why Amélie is acting like this.

Or she might just be an jerk. Those are common enough in the world, criminal or not. If she wasn't one before, it's been more than long enough for Amélie to become one.

"Give yourself time to calm down," Fareeha tries. "Even if she _does_ change, you can't expect it to happen that quickly. It hasn't even been two months."

"I know." Angela sounds so dejected. "I know, but-" she doesn't seem to know how to finish that sentence. She just repeats, "I know."

~~~

Amélie tries a number of things. She sleeps, but the gross feeling is still there when she wakes up. If anything, it's worse. Angela's borrowed sweater sits under her rifle.

She meets Reinhardt on her way to the shooting range. He asks how the mission went, and she sneers, "Maybe you should ask _Mercy_ ," and leaves him behind.

No one bothers Amélie again until she's deep into a round, planting shot after shot through the middle of her targets. The tight cluster should make her feel better. The methodical movement from target to target and the deep breathing should be relaxing. Her heartbeat is even. Her stomach feels sick. Widowmaker doesn't know why.

She's expecting any number of people. Maybe Angela again. Oxton or Amari, ready to tell her off for upsetting Angela. Reinhardt, or Torbjörn maybe, being disappointed.

She's not expecting Brigitte.

Widowmaker's moment of surprise expresses itself as a blink. Brigitte looks unhappy, expression flat in a way that dulls the details for Amélie.

"Did you need something?" Widowmaker asks. She turns her practice rifle back down the range and continues failing to calm herself.

"Why are you so mean to Reinhardt?" Brigitte asks in return.

Widowmaker pauses. "Pardon?"

"He is trying to be friendly. You're constantly bad-tempered in return," says Brigitte. "It's uncalled for."

"Reinhardt is a grown man. He should know better than to try to be friendly with killers," Amélie says coldly. "He should know how to fight his own battles, too."

"You are a grown woman, and should know better than to be rude," Brigitte counters angrily. In the corner of her vision, Amélie can see her cross her arms. "Do you think this is easy for him? He's lost a lot of people and here you are, back from the dead. Of course he would try to give you a chance."

"That chance is wasted," Widowmaker insists. How many people must have died for him to extend a friendly hand to the Widowmaker, of all people? She feels nauseous.

"If you don't want to spend time with him, just say 'I don't want to talk' or 'I need space,'" says Brigitte. "He would respect the sentiment. Needling and insulting him until he gives up and leaves is- it's-" Brigitte seems unable to pick a strong enough word. "It's _unnecessary_!" she finishes vehemently.

Amélie unclenches her jaw. "Your objection is noted."

~~~

Widowmaker dreams of killing people. She shoots the Talon agent by the roadway, and the next one. Tracer's orange and blue skims across the view of her visor and Widowmaker shoots her, too, straight through the temple. One by one the Talon team falls, a bullet apiece. She reaches through her sights and wraps her hands around the last one's throat and squeezes and squeezes. He struggles and she meets his eyes as she chokes the life out of him.

~~~

Amélie wonders if she has food poisoning. Or some sort of stomach flu. She could ask Angela for anti-nausea medication, if she hadn't burned that bridge already. Being sick is inconvenient.

Maybe fresh air will help. It might be good to get out of the base for a little while. She rolls back up to sitting and pulls on the borrowed sweater, swallowing down another pang of nausea as she does so.

In the interests of not setting off every alarm in the Watchpoint, Widowmaker turns to one of the screens she passes on the way to the hanger and says, "I am going out for a little while. I will be back within an hour."

"Acknowledged, Ms. Lacroix," Athena's calm voice rings out. "I will inform Winston."

Amélie is already heading out the door. "Do whatever you wish," she says.

Reinhardt, damn him, was right: the forest is nice to walk through. It's cool and quiet, the sounds of Gibraltar's distant society muffled and locked out by the trees. By the time she's found her quiet way to where the monkeys are spending the day, Widowmaker is calm again. The monkeys notice her quickly where she settles, but otherwise pay her no mind beyond a single lookout keeping an eye on her.

It's something to do, watching them amble about whatever business monkeys have. Amélie lets herself relax, approaching baseline calm again. Then a mother carries her baby into view. It is very small. Widowmaker thinks _Too cute!_ and the sudden feeling just about gives her a panic attack.

~~~

Widowmaker lays on the floor in her room and feels her heart beat. Slow. Slow. She gets a whole breath in between heartbeats. The cool floor against her bare back is nice. She feels sick again.

No, that's not right. She can deny it no longer.

She feels _bad_.

She _feels_ bad.

It's funny, in a way. For ten years, Talon was giving her regular sessions to check on her mental state that never found anything wrong. Two months away, and she suddenly needs them. That's irony for you.

The lie detector would've been useless anyway. She's still steady by all external tells. What would their psych specialist have asked? They would have asked her: has anything good happened lately? Anything bad? How have you been feeling? Have you been scared? Have you been angry? Have you been glad?

Her answers for years have been: sometimes a successful mission, sometimes an unsuccessful mission, normal, no, no, no.

Now it's: a successful mission, several conversations, I don't know, I don't know, je ne sais pas, I don't know.

The tiny bright side in the middle of everything is the fact that Overwatch won't recondition her. They don't even know anything is wrong.

Now she's a little angry: it's stupid. Nothing _should_ be wrong. There is no reason why that mission should have shaken her mental balance up so badly. Dead is dead is dead.

Widowmaker would like to go back to feeling dead, actually. This is unpleasant.

She doesn't really remember what it's like to feel emotions strongly or for any length of time, but surely it wasn't like this.

She hasn't felt guilty since Gérard was alive. Emotions don't just show up again after years of dormancy. They just don't. If she was going to start feeling anything, surely it wouldn't be over rudeness. Everything else is still dulled. The room feels perfectly fine despite the fact that she knows everyone else finds the base chilled. Her heart beats easily. She's breathing. The flare of annoyance at her own state has already faded.

Widowmaker feels another emotion, which is: _I hate this_.

She feels bad.

~~~

One of these days, Widowmaker won't surprise Angela by appearing at her infirmary. Today is not that day. Angela's hunched over a tablet, screen full of text. There's a little crease across her brow.

Amélie knocks on the door frame. Angela blinks slowly, like she's waking up, and turns to look at her. The crease gets deeper.

"Amélie," she says.

"Angela," says Amélie.

There's silence. Widowmaker hates it.

Angela raises a delicate eyebrow. "Did you come here for a reason?" she asks.

"It is..." hard to speak. She knows she used to be capable of doing this, in another life. "About what you said before…"

Angela's expression turns to deep displeasure. _Good job,_ Amélie congratulates herself bitterly. _You wanted her to stop being nice to you_. Finally, a clear and logical reaction from Angela. It's not satisfying.

"Sorry." She looks at the ground before she can see how Angela responds. "That is all." Amélie turns to leave.

There's a loud sigh behind her. "Wait."

She waits.

"Look at me?" Angela sounds tentative. Widowmaker turns around to look up at her from under her bangs. Angela's expression is one like a person trying to figure out a puzzle. "Are you Amélie, or are you the Widowmaker?"

Widowmaker feels so, so tired. "They're different identities, Angela, not different personalities. It's all me," she says. "It has always just been me."

Angela sighs. "I suppose that answers my question, in its own way." She waves a hand to the exam table. "Sit." Amélie hesitates. " _Sit_ ," Angela repeats more firmly.

Widowmaker sits.

"Why are you apologizing?"

There are no words to describe how much Widowmaker doesn't want to be having this conversation. She wants to go back to her room and sleep for a year.

But she owes Angela this much. Widowmaker says, "I feel bad."

"I thought you'd been quite insistent that you don't feel much of anything at all," says Angela.

"I don't." Cute animals apparently notwithstanding.

Angela watches her for a moment. Widowmaker tries to look at her head on. It's hard. She still looks upset.

"I believe you," Angela finally sighs, "though I'm not sure why. You seemed very unapologetic about your kills."

"I don't feel bad about those," says Amélie. Her voice sounds sullen to her own ears.

"But you feel bad about this?"

"Yes. Apparently."

"Your priorities are awful." Angela is frowning at her.

"I told you before," Widowmaker says, a chagrined half-smile tugging at her mouth. "I am not a good person. I am not a _nice_ person."

"You used to be," says Angela.

"How good a person could I have been, to become this?" Widowmaker scoffs. "Most people are not as pure as you are."

Angela looks away. "I'm not pure. Don't say things like that."

"Vraiment? You?" Widowmaker makes her best disbelieving face. "A medical pioneer, savior of lives and doctor to the poor and the dispossessed? You save children. I orphan them."

"We all have our mistakes and our regrets," Angela says quietly. "I may dress as an angel, but I assure you I am human. Don't compare yourself to me."

Interesting. Widowmaker doesn't know what to make of that. She wonders if Amari knows about Angela's mysterious regrets. She wonders if Fareeha Amari has mistakes and regrets of her own that Angela doesn't judge.

"For someone claiming to be only human, you seem to be trying to dispense some high and mighty life wisdom," Amélie says wryly. Angela turns, looking ready to argue, but whatever she was about to say is visibly canceled when she sees Amélie's smirk.

"Is this really the time to needle me?" Angela asks.

"I am not nice," Amélie insists. "If you are so willing to nobly accept that everyone has faults, you must be willing to accept that fact as well. It is hardly the worst of my sins."

Angela makes a weird face. It's gone a moment later, swallowed by a wave of determination.

"I know everyone has faults. Whether I forgive them is another thing," says Angela. Uh oh. "Are you willing to do the work? To get better and grow beyond this?"

It's sweet that she thinks that's possible. "The first step is admitting you have a problem, is it not?" Widowmaker asks with a charming smile.

"That's not an answer," Angela calls her bluff. "It's not called the One Step Program. Owning up to it doesn't free you from having to do anything about it."

Widowmaker doesn't want to go into a twelve step program for her bad personality. She wants to stop feeling crappy and go back to bed.

"You may find it's not possible for me to be anything other than what I am," says Amélie bluntly.

"Certainly not, if you quit before step two," Angela retorts.

Ugh. Fine. "I will... try," Widowmaker says slowly. "I can promise no more than that."

"Will you actually try, or are you just saying that to get me off your back?"

Widowmaker's not sure Angela would be able to tell if she lied. "I will try," she promises halfheartedly. She will fail, but she'll try, and then she'll try very hard not to tell Angela _I told you so_. She'll probably fail at that, too.

Angela gives her a long look, probably trying to gauge her honesty, and finally says, "All right. I suppose that is all I can ask of you." She folds her hands together in her lap and faces Amélie fully. "Your apology is accepted."

~~~

The heavy feeling doesn't go away entirely, but it alleviates somewhat after Amélie leaves the medical office. She goes to the hanger and grapples her way up into the rafters where no one should be able to track her down and she can rest without fear of interruption. Amélie is done with talking to people for the next week, if she can get away with it.

Then she'll have to deal with the other source of guilt.

Apologizing to Reinhardt would probably be pointless, she decides. He will tell her no harm is done, and probably be very gallant about it too, regardless of his actual feelings. She can just… _try_ to be less prickly. It's certainly an easier task now that she understands him. He seems like the type who would consider a change in behavior apology enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See y'all next week~
> 
> In the meantime, kudos, comments, that whole spiel. I cherish every bit of feedback.


	6. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone. Before we get into this chapter, I want to give some real quick heads-ups: this chapter depicts another blood draw (consensual, medical context again), as well as a nasty touch of suicidal ideation, so. Now you know.

When Reinhardt tells Athena that they're going to look at monkeys, Athena proceeds to give a short but thorough overview of international wildlife protection laws. As Reinhardt had mentioned, it includes not feeding the animals. It also includes keeping minimum distances, which seems to be another rule that no one explained to the monkeys.

Sure enough, the Barbary apes-- _They're not apes at all_ , Winston had mentioned when Reinhardt was talking to him-- come much closer than the law allows. They're too used to humans to care. A pair climb onto Reinhardt, surprising Brigitte with their speed.

"Athena wouldn't be happy to see this," Brigitte tells him.

"How am I supposed to stop them?" Reinhardt asks, which is a fairly reasonable question. The monkeys don't appear easily shooed.

"How many years do you think this little outing would add to our sentences?" asks Brigitte. She has a little half-smile, so it's a joke. Widowmaker, who would probably be hung by any government that managed to bring her in, doesn't bother to reply.

Reinhardt offers to get them all food in town, but Widowmaker can't go. Blue skin rather stands out. She feels a pang of something, and then it's gone again.

~~~

Amélie is in the rafters of the hanger when Mei-ling Zhou arrives at Gibraltar. The Watchpoint's latest scientist is met at the door by Oxton, and there is a lot of excitement and joy that echoes its way up to her hiding place.

"It's such an honor to meet you, Mei!" is Oxton's opening line. "You were such an inspiration to me!"

Mei's giggle is a little awkward, maybe pleased, maybe surprised. "You inspired me, too, Tracer!"

"Oh please, luv, call me Lena." Widowmaker wonders if Oxton is always like this when she meets new people and isn't shooting at them. "Do you need any help with your bag? You've been luggin' it all the way up 'ere, after all."

"No, no, it's fine! Thank you!" Zhou's voice is cute. There's a sound of rustling cloth and a heavy _whumph_. "Just let me rest a second and I'll be fine."

"Have you really been living out of the one rucksack?" Oxton asks.

"You'd be surprised how much you can carry when you're backpacking," is Zhou's response. "Anything I didn't need to live on, I shipped. Some of the recovered terminals should be arriving in the next few days."

"Good thing Winston already cleared out some room for you, then."

"Oh? I didn't think the labs were ready yet."

Widowmaker rolls onto her stomach so she can peek down at them over the edge. From above, Zhou looks like a white and blue puffball. Her hiking bag looks almost as big as she is.

Oxton leans over like she's whispering a secret, but her stage-whisper is clearly audible. "He did it special. If I'm being honest, I think Winston's just really lookin' forward to havin' another researcher around."

"Oh my gosh! He didn't have to go to that trouble," Zhou protests. "I hope it didn't take away from more important work."

"I think he was usin' it to take a break, actually," says Oxton.

"Really?"

"Cross my heart." Oxton mimes the action. "I'm sure he'd tell you it's no trouble. The more, the merrier!"

"How many people have come back by now?" asks Zhou.

"Little over half a dozen? Lesse," Oxton starts to count out on her fingers, "there's me an' Winston, Reinhardt, Mercy, Torbjörn-"

"Oof. Big names," Zhou comments.

"-you, of course, speakin' of big names" Oxton continues with a playful grin, "and Genji's supposed to check in at some point with a new friend, plus Reinhardt brought Brigitte, so that's nine. More'n I thought! McCree's phoning in, I guess Fareeha's commuting sorta, and uh. I suppose we got Widowmaker too."

Despite the feelings that have started coming back to her, Widowmaker can't find it in her to be insulted by the difference in Oxton's tone when she comes to her name.

"The offer was legitimate, then?" Zhou asks. Amélie hadn't realized she knew about it.

"Seems to be. So far at least," says Oxton. "It's been rocky."

"How so? What is she like?"

Oxton manages to pack quite a lot of meaning into a sound like _egh_. "Whatever you expected a career killer to be like, you're probably not far off. Classic femme fatale, cold and snippy. Drop dead gorgeous, and it's wasted on a terrible person."

Amélie finds herself smiling at the description. Despite the several conversations she's had with Angela about this now, she likes that she can still get under Oxton's skin, even if it _is_ because she killed one of the woman's heroes in front of her eyes. She might eventually feel bad about that.

A little vain part of her is happy that people still find her attractive, even if it's not particularly important anymore. Back when she still cared about that sort of thing, Amélie liked her men more masculine and her women more feminine, but Oxton is the exact sort of slightly butch that she would have made an exception for. Too bad. Maybe in another life, in another world where they didn't meet for the first time on the rooftops above King's Row.

Zhou makes a displeased noise at Oxton's description. "That's unfortunate. I'd sort of hoped that she would be different."

"Different how?" Oxton asks, tilting her head curiously. Widowmaker is wondering the same thing.

Zhou flaps a hand vaguely. "I don't know. If I have to work with a serial killer, I guess I was hoping it would be a repentant one."

Amélie keeps the annoyed huff internalized thanks to years of practiced silence.

"You an' me both, Mei," Oxton laments.

"At least the others sound like good people," Zhou says, audibly perking up. "I will just try to stay away from Widowmaker."

Widowmaker debates inserting herself into Zhou's life, but she'd promised Angela that she would _try_ to be nicer and intentionally annoying the new arrival is definitely not in keeping with that promise.

"She's goin' by Amélie," says Oxton.

"That's a pretty name," says Zhou.

"Yeah. Like I said, whole lotta pretty wasted on that one."

~~~

No one has asked for her rifle back yet. This is either a mindblowing show of trust or an unprecedented level of incompetence.

~~~

"Amélie?" Angela calls up.

Amélie rolls smoothly off the beams and hears Angela gasp during the moment before her grapple catches and slows her descent.

"Yes, chérie?" she asks.

Angela is holding a different sweater. This one is cable-knit in white and purple. She says, "I brought you something."

"I already have a sweater," Widowmaker points out, delicately tugging at the shoulder of the one she's wearing. "I don't need a second one."

"This is not a second one," Angela says. "This is a trade, so that I can wash the one you've _been_ wearing."

"It's not so bad," Amélie says.

"It is," Angela argues.

Amélie lifts an arm and buries her nose in the thick yarn to take a wiff. Her sense of smell has never been good, even before she underwent rampant physical modification. "Not so bad," she insists.

Angela makes an unamused face and holds out the new sweater. "Trade."

"I think you just want to get me out of my clothes," Amélie suggests.

Angela turns red. "I know you are wearing your leotard under there," she says. "Don't try to turn this into something dirty."

"You like me," Amélie teases, but acquiesces to pull the sweater smoothly over her head.

"Thank you," Angela says shortly, trading their respective lumps of fabric.

"You did not buy this for me?" Amélie checks as she pulls the sweater on. It feels a little worn, but still fluffy.

"N- no, it's another one of mine," says Angela. "You're right, though. I should get you your own."

Widowmaker doesn't really like that idea. "Don't bother," she says. "I'll just keep borrowing yours." She smiles suggestively. Angela, who had only gotten back to pink, promptly reddens again. Amélie wonders if Fareeha knows that she gets these sorts of reactions.

~~~

Amélie dreams of wrapping shaking hands around a shivering throat, of feeling the fear in her victim, of staring into familiar brown eyes so dark they're almost black. He dies, over and over again, and she chokes and suffocates and dies with him. Her hands shake for a long time after she wakes up.

~~~

Sometimes, Amélie eats in the kitchen instead of squirreling the food away to her room. She's pretty sure the others think she takes most of her meals in there, instead of just eating sporadically. Angela seems to be the only one who knows the truth.

Amélie never engages anyone else, unless she's pulled into conversation by Reinhardt or Angela. Instead she lets other people's conversations flow over her and distract her from whatever high calorie thing she's forcing down.

This time it's peanut butter from the public jar haphazardly smeared on white bread. At least one bite so far had no peanut butter at all, because Widowmaker didn't take the time to spread it evenly.

Brigitte and Winston are discussing differences in armor design. Amélie's not sure when these things stopped being off-limits to her, but they seem to be. She hasn't tried the door to the inner workshops.

This is the somewhat cozy atmosphere in which she first meets Zhou. Amélie's in the process of chewing through the last mouthful of sandwich and crossing past the entryway to grab another, and very nearly collides with the woman when she enters the kitchen.

"Sorry!" Zhou sputters automatically. "Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry!" Then she looks up far enough to see Widowmaker's face. "Ah," she says, "you're…"

A mouthful of peanut butter is not conducive to verbal interaction. Amélie nods and steps around her.

She is, for once, thankful for Winston, who notices their new arrival and says, "Ah, Dr. Zhou! Have you been settling in well?"

"Um, yes," Zhou's response starts hesitant, still startled by abrupt meeting, and then picks up speed again. "Yes, the lab area you prepared for me is perfect. Thank you very much. I don't know how I can ever repay you."

Widowmaker keeps her back turned to them and her head in the fridge, pretending to look for something while she chews furiously. She has very few things left to her. She can't afford the loss of dignity.

"There's no need for that," Winston is saying. "The work you're doing is- it's necessary. You can pay me back by continuing to do it. Don't worry about it."

"I'll figure something out," Zhou promises nevertheless. Amélie fills a mug with milk and takes a gulp to wash her mouth out, then remembers that Zhou doesn't want to interact with her and that she's trying to be nice and so shouldn't interact with her either and so it doesn't actually matter whether she can talk now.

The chatter continues behind her. The idea of more sticky peanut butter is unpleasant. She digs some slices of sandwich meat out of their wrapper and sticks those on another pair of bread slices and decides to retreat before she can say anything she'll regret. She's halfway out the door when Brigitte speaks up in French.

"Had enough?" Brigitte asks. The other two look at her with some confusion, then follow her gaze to Widowmaker.

"You may not believe it," Amélie responds in the same language, "but I sometimes have a hard time being civil."

Brigitte gives her a strange look, but says, "Let me help." In English she adds, "Amélie, have you met Mei yet?"

Widowmaker decides not to just walk out the door right there. Instead she says, "I have not."

"Here," Brigitte leans back so they've got a direct line of sight and waves between the two of them. "Amélie, meet Dr. Mei-ling Zhou. Mei, this is Amélie Lacroix."

"It's just Amélie," Widowmaker says, mostly to Brigitte.

Zhou presses her lips together. "I have heard about you," she eventually says.

"And I have heard of you, Dr. Zhou," Amélie says. What would a femme fatale do here? She narrows her eyes appraisingly and purses her lips a little and adds, "I hope we will be able to work _very_ well together."

Zhou's mouth stays closed, but Amélie can still see the way her jaw drops a little. She looks appalled. It's gratifying.

Brigitte looks annoyed. She's back to French when she says, "You're trying to be a troublemaker, aren't you?" It's not really a question.

"Always look for the woman," Amélie purrs back, and leaves.

Behind her, she can hear Winston asking, "Where have I heard that before? Sher-shay la femme." Athena's voice starts to chime in with an explanation that Widowmaker doesn't need.

~~~

"Amélie?" Angela whispers. "Are you asleep?"

She is not, but considering her regular breathing patterns it's not surprising that Angela couldn't tell. Amélie doesn't even open her eyes as she says, "No."

Angela's chair rolls over to the exam table, presumably with Angela on it. "I just got the results on your latest blood work," Angela says more normally. "Did you want to see them?"

"Not particularly," says Amélie. "My physiology is a curiosity to _you_. _I_ never particularly cared."

"Fine," Angela sniffs. "But if you change your mind-"

"I won't," Amélie says, rolling over to put her back towards the doctor. There's a huff behind her, and then silence for a long while.

Amélie dozes off and almost does fall asleep by the time Angela speaks again.

"I need to ask you some questions," she says. Her voice sounds very serious.

Widowmaker rolls onto her back and actually does open her eyes this time to get a better idea of Angela's mood. She looks serious, too. Maybe Talon implanted some sort of kill switch and they've found poison in her blood. Angela would probably look more panicked if that was the case.

"Ouais?" Amélie asks.

"What sort of maintenance did Talon do on your modifications?" Angela asks.

Amélie frowns. "None. Once it was done, it was done."

"No regular upkeep?" Angela presses.

"No."

"I need you to think hard," says Angela. "Was there _anything at all_ like upkeep? Regular check-ups, or pills, or anything like that?"

Amélie thinks, hard. The only regular thing she had was the sessions with the psychologist, and. Oh. "Not for the physical modifications," she tells Angela, "but they regularly had me meet with a psychologist. There were injections."

"Talon had a psychologist?" Angela seems to get derailed.

"Or something like that," Amélie confirms. "To make sure I was not having any doubts or issues with our work." Not that she couldn't have faked her way through those sessions, in retrospect, if she had needed to. Or cared.

Angela nods, understanding if not necessarily satisfied. "Did they ever tell you what was in these injections?"

"No," Amélie says, and preemptively adds, "and I never asked. It was just something that happened."

Angela nods again, looking thoughtfully at her datapad. "I hate to ask this of you-" she starts.

"You want another blood sample," Amélie guesses.

"Yes. Just to confirm what I'm seeing."

Amélie rolls into a sitting position and pushes a sleeve up above her elbow by way of answer. Her previous position has been pushing the edge of her armor into her chest, leaving behind an irritated line. She resists scratching at it.

"What is it that you think you're seeing?" Amélie asks as Angela starts getting out what she needs. It's almost a familiar process to watch by now.

"The original samples revealed high levels of a variety of chemicals that- well, to put it simply, should not be found in the human body," Angela explains. "Some I could not identify with the equipment I have here. Others, I simply can not know what effect they would have on a person. This is why I took the second sample: to send it to a friend in the profession who could get a better reading."

"I assume that I am not dying," Widowmaker says as Angela finds her vein and pushes the needle in.

Angela sounds testy as she says, "If you were, I doubt I would be able to tell, with the condition you are regularly in." Amélie feels the odd sucking sensation of her blood being taken. "The second results are much like the first, in that we have no precedent for the effects that these things would have if injected. However," she pauses as she changes out her vials, "the concentration of these chemicals in your system is much less than it was the first time around. How often were the injections you were receiving?"

Amélie watches the syringe fill with the rich red of her blood. That color, at least, never changed. "Once a month," she answers.

"So you have missed at least two of these injections since defecting?" Angela asks, capping the second vial and starting to clean up.

"That's correct."

"And you have experienced no noticeable physical changes?" The vials go into the refrigerator and Angela snaps the latex gloves off her hands. "Appetite, sleep regimen, heart-rate?"

No, but Amélie can put two and two together with the fact that the injections were done during her sessions. "I have been having feelings again," she confesses, "like some sort of child."

"Adults also have feelings," Angela says.

"I suppose," Amélie concedes.

"Are you saying you don't have feelings?" asks Angela.

"Not for the last decade," Amélie shrugs. "It is strange."

Angela looks troubled, but Amélie can't discern the specific flavor of it. "Is it like it was before? Uh, before Talon started giving you injections, I mean."

Amélie shakes her head. Her ponytail whispers over the paper sheet. "It is more than it was with Talon, but still much less than I remember."

Angela hums and picks up her pad to make some notes. "It's not unreasonable for that to be the case," she says after a moment. "The concentration of this… this _cocktail_ in your bloodstream was very high at the beginning, and while it is lower now it's still quite present. It's possible that the regular injections were intended to maintain a high concentration, and that the symptoms will take some time to recede as your body metabolizes their treatment out of your system."

"You think this will get worse?" Amélie translates.

Angela frowns at her. " _Better_ ," she corrects. "Your emotional responses will come back."

"Worse," Amélie repeats. When Angela looks uncomprehending, she adds, "You assume I want them back."

"Why would you not?" Angela asks. She looks sad.

"I am not bothered by not having them," Amélie tells her. "It is not upsetting to have lost them. It is a bother to have them suddenly reappearing unexpectedly. I don't know how to handle them."

"You will learn," says Angela. "Or relearn, I suppose."

Amélie debates asking Angela if she'd be willing to reverse engineer Talon's drug and inject her with it, but she already knows the answer will be no and probably a lecture regarding the ethicality of doing so. She skips that step. "How annoying," she says.

~~~

Much like the kitchen, Widowmaker tries spending more time in the little communal area where the others spend their time. It's reasonably comfortable as long as Oxton or Zhou aren't there. Torbjörn depends on his mood.

She's borrowed the datapad again and is looking for scans of a book Brigitte recommended. On the other side of the room, Angela and Fareeha are on a video call with McCree. No one has suggested that she should join the conversation, thankfully. Amélie only met McCree once before; now she mostly knows _of_ him, as a legend on the wind in the underworld.

He doesn't seem like a legend who single-handedly took down a Talon strike team right now. He's dry and charming in a subtle sort of way and painfully, overwhelmingly American to a degree that makes Widowmaker want to roll her eyes constantly. Amari _does_ roll her eyes at him, several times, usually when McCree's persona becomes a parody of itself. Amélie can't tell if it's an elaborate joke or if he's actually taking himself completely seriously. She looks at the _Cauchemar_ tattooed on her arm and thinks maybe that's a symptom of spending too much time with Reyes, regardless of what identity he's using at the time.

"You need to watch your back better," says Amari. "Haven't you found a Tonto yet?"

"Way things've been goin' lately, I'm starting to wonder if _I'm_ tonto," says McCree. He pronounces it differently.

"Surely not, Eastwood!" Amari protests.

Angela shoves her in the shoulder. "Don't encourage him!"

"Maybe I need some encouragement, y'ever think'a that?" McCree drawls. "An' Eastwood didn't have anything to do with Lone Ranger, Fareeha, which I think you know well enough."

"No, he did," Amari insists.

"You thinkin' of Lone Rider? He directed that, but that ain't a Western," McCree says.

"No, no, it was one you showed me," says Amari. "He acted in it."

There's a moment of silence. Angela is hanging her head in her hands like the conversation is causing her pain.

"Pale Rider!" McCree exclaims.

"Yes! That was it!" says Amari.

"Thought you didn't like that one?"

"It's not my fault so much of what you watch is silly old garbage." Amari's tone sounds teasing, like she's repeating herself.

McCree sounds similarly scripted as he starts, "Hey, now-"

"I will end this call right now, I swear it," Angela interferes.

"Now Angela, that's not playing Pharah," says Amari.

It takes Amélie a moment to figure out the pun. She almost snorts. It is so bad. McCree rewards it with a small chuckle while Angela looks exaggeratedly disappointed.

"That's your job, not mine," Angela finally says primly.

"And I actually did like parts of Pale Rider," Fareeha says, turning back to McCree. "It was the Lone Ranger that was truly terrible."

"An' I have apologized for that repeatedly," McCree huffs. "I hadn't seen it either. I think everyone was disappointed that night."

"I thought the Lone Ranger was a classic?" Angela asks.

There are simultaneous dubious noises from McCree and Amari. "First of all, it's a franchise, not just one movie," McCree says. "Second of all, the people who decide something's classic don't always have the best taste."

"I like the _potential_ of Tonto," Amari says. "The execution..."

"Not so much," McCree finishes. "I'm not sure whether they should give it another try or just let the whole thing die."

"Let it die," Amari and Angela say together, with very different tones. Amélie can't decide whether it's cute or obnoxious how in sync they are, sitting shoulder to shoulder so they can both see the screen.

~~~

Torbjörn, of all people, comes back from a supply run and drops a box of vibrantly colored macarons on the table Amélie is sitting on. Amélie looks at him, but he doesn't look at her.

"Thought you might like these," he says gruffly, "for not having killed us all yet."

Amélie wonders just how blind an eye the world is turning to Overwatch's actions here. Last she'd heard, several countries had officially condemned them and the UN had reinforced the existence of the Petras Act. Yet, apparently the less-than-subtle Torbjörn can walk out of the Nature Reserve, go into town, and buy macarons without it starting an international incident. Amélie has seen the sort of materials he and Brigitte bring in, too. Surely someone must be taking note.

In the meantime, she says, "Merci."

"Think nothing of it," he grumbles, and leaves.

Amélie examines the box. It's nondescript pink cardboard with a clear plastic window. Inside are twelve macarons, in pink and pale blue and yellow. She hasn't had macarons for a very long time, because going out of her way to ask for them seemed ridiculous and it's not as though she could get her own groceries.

She tries to figure out if her pastry choices had ever come up in conversation at the old Overwatch, or if maybe Gérard might have said something, or if Torbjörn just guessed, then decides the answer doesn't matter.

She picks a yellow one out of the middle. The first bite nearly gives her a heart attack. Have macarons always been this sweet? Surely they must have been. They're basically pure sugar. Despite the color, the jam tastes like raspberries. It's.

It's really good, actually. It's been a very long time since Amélie has eaten for pleasure rather than sustenance. The last sugary thing she had was a Coca-Cola, and she's certain that hadn't had this effect on her. She's not sure whether this is another inexplicable effect of the chemicals in her bloodstream or if she'd forgotten being crazy for macarons.

Speaking of which: if someone else walks in now, they are going to ask for one. Amélie retreats to her room.

~~~

Fareeha approaches Reinhardt when he's finishing up his work-out. It's astounding the sorts of physical feats he still does regularly, considering his age. Unlike most things, this is more impressive now than it was when she was a child and didn't understand how the world worked.

He lowers the barbell with perfect care, and it still thuds against the ground. It's ridiculous. Fareeha smiles.

"One day I will match you on those," she says when Reinhardt notices her.

The man laughs. "Eventually, I'm sure!" They both know that's not going to happen. "Did you come here to join me? I'm afraid I'm almost done."

"That's alright," Fareeha says. "I was actually hoping to speak to you about somewhat more serious matters, once you have finished cleaning up."

"How serious?" he asks.

"Not too serious for you to rinse off first," says Fareeha, fanning a hand in front of her nose jokingly. Reinhardt snorts and waves her away.

They meet up twenty minutes later, when Fareeha treats him to fast-food she picked up from the edge of the Reserve. The locals have long since gotten used to these strangers buying food and wandering back among the trees. As far as Fareeha can tell, Overwatch's return is an open secret to the citizens of Gibraltar.

It's hamburgers, not Reinhardt's beloved sausages, but he happily accepts nonetheless.

"Now then," he asks once she's led him to a more secluded area just outside the Watchpoint's buildings, "what was it that you needed to speak about?"

Fareeha has been trying to figure out how to broach this topic, and is still at a loss for what order to attack it in. With Reinhardt, though, at least she can be certain that straight-forward is the best method.

"I wanted to speak to you about Amélie," she says.

"Ah," says Reinhardt. There is a lot of heavy understanding in the sigh. He eats half a hamburger in one bite. Fareeha allows him the time to chew and swallow, and probably to steady himself. "What about her, in particular?" he finally prompts.

"I am," Fareeha weighs her words, "suspicious of several of the assumed facts of her story."

"You think she's lying to us?"

"No," says Fareeha, which is not usually the answer she'd expect to give to that question. "I think she has been truthful, if perhaps not forthcoming with certain details. But I wonder if she is choosing not to correct certain misconceptions that we made ourselves."

Reinhardt chews his way through another thoughtful mouthful, and Fareeha takes advantage of the moment to start on her own lunch.

"In retrospect," Reinhardt says, "I suppose there are more than a few assumptions that we made. Which ones are you questioning?"

"I am actually hoping not to bias your answers by starting with that," Fareeha admits somewhat sheepishly. "I will tell you afterwards."

"A fair point," Reinhardt concedes. "Ask your questions, then!"

There are so many. Fareeha starts with an easy one. "How well did you know Amélie, before she defected?"

"Not particularly well. I knew Gérard well enough, but Overwatch was very big by that point," he explains. "I did not know him well the way that I knew the original strike team well, if that makes sense." Fareeha nods, understanding. "Amélie would come with him sometimes, though. I was once at his home office and she visited him there, and it seemed to be a regular occurrence. She always came with him to social events, unless she was dancing that night, in which case Gérard would go with her instead. Sometimes she would accompany him when he went on business trips. None of us were close friends with her, but we all knew and were friendly with her."

"And how did her relationship with Gérard seem to you? Were they happy together?"

"Nauseatingly so." Reinhardt says it like it's the highest order of compliment. "To my understanding, they had known each other before Gérard was recruited to Overwatch, and they married a little less than a year after that. They were very sweet together. You know that way of teasing each other that two people can only do after they are very close? They were like that. Best friends." Reinhardt looks wistful. "He spoke of her a lot. Not overwhelmingly, but she would naturally come up in conversation."

Fareeha picks at one of the edges in the story. "Do you know why they got married when they did?"

"I believe," Reinhardt trails off, thinking, "yes, I believe Gérard mentioned that he had proposed after a promotion. He was worried he would be transferred elsewhere if he kept going up the ranks, and wanted to make it clear to Amélie that he still wanted her in his life first and foremost. He was recruited sometime after that."

Confirmation of one point: Amélie Lacroix could not have been a sleeper agent, just as she'd said. "And she was supportive of his career?" asks Fareeha.

"Very," Reinhardt says with surety. "Amélie considered Overwatch's efforts as a peacekeeping force to be noble and necessary. She was very encouraging to all of us who chose to serve the greater good. 'Heroes,' she called us." He chuckles. "Sometimes I think she played it up to fluster Gérard, but the sentiment seemed sincere nonetheless."

Here is where Fareeha's suspicions turn into too many possible explanations. She needs to start eliminating them. The first is the worst, but would give one of the simpler solutions. "She never seemed," Fareeha hopes the question won't be hurtful, "scared of him?"

Reinhardt frowns. "Not that I saw," he says.

"No emotional fragility?" He shakes his head. "No inexplicable nervousness, or illnesses?"

"I'm afraid I see where you're going with this line of questioning," says Reinhardt solemnly. "I am familiar with the more subtle warning signs, and I can tell you only that I never saw anything that would indicate an abusive situation behind the scenes."

No apparent differences in philosophy, no signs of hidden violence to drive Amélie into the arms of anyone who would claim to help her. That option isn't necessarily off the table, but it's not going to be easy to track down if it was the case. Fareeha wishes Amélie would be more forthcoming with Talon's philosophy or with their cause. Anything with roots she could dig up in Overwatch's memories.

"Was she ever unkind?" Fareeha tries instead. "Not necessarily to Gérard. In general."

Reinhardt shakes his head. "Not at all. She was inclined towards sarcasm, as some people are, but she was very kind. If I did not already know they were the same person, I would have trouble believing that the Amélie we know now is the same one I knew before."

"I'm not sure I believe that she used to be someone who never had an unkind word to say about another person," Fareeha says doubtfully.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," says Reinhardt. "She was not saintly. She was passionate, and would certainly have disagreements with people sometimes that did not have to be as big as they became. But she had tact, and she cared deeply about people. Even when she got into arguments, it was usually from pain on behalf of others."

 _It was usually from pain_ , thinks Fareeha. Perhaps that's remained the same. It's not an answer she was looking for, but it's an interesting piece.

"Was she ever unnecessarily cruel during these arguments?" Fareeha asks.

"Only in the way that anyone can be cruel in anger," says Reinhardt. "I did not ever hear of her saying anything particularly vicious. Merely rude."

Fareeha has already dug up what she can of incident reports and police records, so she suspects she already knows the answer to her next question, but she asks anyway. "What about violence? Any physical altercations?"

"None," Reinhardt says, as expected. "She kept in shape, of course. A ballerina of her caliber could hardly afford not to. But I never heard of her even taking a self-defense course. I believe I remember her saying once, in response to the question of why she had not gone down a route in law enforcement or one of the other vocations she considered so noble, that she was not a fighter. It was simply not the sort of life she would choose."

"And no sign that she was holding back a desire to harm others," Fareeha says, just to make sure.

"Indeed not," Reinhardt confirms.

Which leave Fareeha back at the core of the problem: Amélie Lacroix is the most inexplicable traitor. There is no way to explain her betrayal, which means that they are missing something big that does.

"A final question, then," Fareeha sighs. Reinhardt nods, silently prompting her to continue. "What could make Amélie Lacroix kill Gérard?"

Reinhardt sits back with a heavy sigh, crossing his arms and looking heavenward. "Before she came here, I would have said loyalty to Talon," he answers. "Now?" He shakes his head helplessly. "I do not know."

~~~

Angela doesn't know how often Amélie sleeps in her office and how often she just lays very still with her eyes closed. Her breathing is deep and even no matter what.

One day, against the quiet backdrop, Amélie talks in her sleep. For a woman who feels nothing, there is a lot of longing and sorrow packed into the way she breathes the name, "Gérard." Angela almost cries just to hear it.

Angela's not sure when Amélie wakes up. The woman doesn't act any different. Neither does Angela.

~~~

Amélie had never paid much attention to what it felt like lie on her side, until she started spending time on the skinny exam table in Angela's offices. The stiffness of her armor usually keeps everything more or less in place, but when she's on her side for any prolonged length of time she can feel her breast start to slide out. It's easily fixed by laying on her back, but then her legs hang off the table. On her front is even worse. The weight of her legs off the table is uncomfortable on her knees unless she curls up in an equally unpleasant way.

This wouldn't be a problem with a bra, now that she thinks about it.

~~~

Reinhardt forgets, sometimes, that Amélie can't reasonably come down to Gibraltar with them. Even if the town seems to be ignoring the presence of Overwatch, Amélie is internationally wanted for her own reasons, not to mention Talon's likely displeasure with her departure.

 _It's fine_ , she insists. She has long since accepted that she can not go out among regular society. When she wasn't doing work for Talon, she was holed up on one of their bases. This is normal.

Sometimes Amélie finds herself watching them leave with something sick flickering deep in her stomach. She goes and hides in her room until they come back, usually toting something for her.

~~~

Zhou has been describing her trip across Asia for the better part of half-an-hour when she suddenly stops and says, "Oh, I'm sorry! I just keep talking. This must be so boring for you."

"Not even a little, luv!" Oxton insists. "Anyone tells you otherwise, they're mad."

"I like hearing about your travels. Especially the pictures," Brigitte agrees. Amélie can't see the pictures from her nest. "I hope I can move around like that someday."

"I thought you and Reinhardt went just about everywhere?" asks Oxton.

"Everywhere around _Europe_ , yes," Brigitte corrects with a laugh. "Not farther east than the Baltics, though. And our travels in Greenland were cut short by the recall."

"No!" Oxton gasps.

"Yes!" says Brigitte. "I really haven't gotten to see most of what I want to."

"I'm sure Reinhardt would be willing to go farther out if you asked," Zhou suggests. "He always struck me as the type to find something to do no matter where he is. Fighting the good fight, wherever he's called to do it!" Despite her high voice, she does a creditable imitation of Reinhardt's boom.

"I'm sure he would," says Brigitte, "but I don't want to ask that of him. Maybe once I'm done apprenticing."

"Maybe he'd _like_ to go on a trip," Oxton says, "d'ya ever think of that?"

Brigitte laughs. "Sure, but I worry about what sort of trouble he would get himself into. Can you imagine?"

There's a pair of solemn hums from the other two. Amélie can imagine, too.

"You don't have to go to trouble areas, though," Zhou points out. "Most of my trip didn't go through anywhere that was dangerous, other than the natural environment."

Brigitte makes a dubious noise. "I wouldn't like to avoid areas where people need help, though. That doesn't sit right with me."

"That's why you're workin' with Reinhardt, right?" Oxton says more than asks.

"It wouldn't sit right with him either, no," says Brigitte.

"Try talking to him about it," Zhou insists. "When I'm travelling, I only have to worry about Snowball, and it doesn't have any strong feelings on where we go. But you two can make decisions together!"

"Thank you, Mei," Brigitte says. To Amélie's ears, it sounds indulgent, not like she's really going to talk to Reinhardt about it.

"Listen to ya, spoutin' wisdom," Oxton crows.

"I may have spent a little too long with the Shambali," Zhou says self-consciously.

"You're havin' me on," says Oxton. "The Shambali? Really?"

"Their monastery is near the old Ecopoint in Nepal," Zhou confirms.

"Please tell me you took pictures," begs Brigitte.

"Yes, of course! One moment." Zhou's voice is replaced by the sound of her tapping through her datapad.

"I can't believe you got to spend time at their monastery! That'd be a dream come true for me," Oxton proclaims.

"Here, just flick right to keep going," Zhou tells Brigitte, then to Oxton says, "It's a beautiful place. They were very welcoming, too, despite… you know."

"How long after the assassination was it?" asks Oxton.

"Only a month or so," Zhou answers. "I actually met a friend of Genji's there. He's not a member of the Shambali anymore, but he was visiting them because of their shared loss."

"Oh, that's Zenyatta, innit?" Oxton says. "He's supposed to be comin' here at some point, with Genji."

The news discomfits Amélie slightly, but she can't place why and the feeling quickly passes.

"It would be nice to meet him again under better circumstances," Zhou says. "I quite liked him. He was very understanding."

"Do you think they would be alright with people travelling up there?" Brigitte asks.

"It seemed like they had pilgrims quite often," says Zhou. "Are you adding Nepal to your travel list?"

"It looks beautiful," Brigitte says by way of confirmation. "Very cold, but beautiful."

"Oh yes," says Zhou. "It's a very _ice_ place. "

There is a groan and some genuine laughter. Amélie surprises herself by snorting at the pun, terrible though it is. It must surprise the speakers, too, because a moment after she's snapped a hand over her mouth to stop the noise there's a flash of blue and Oxton is bracing herself on the next rafter over, looking disgruntled.

"Amélie," Oxton says flatly.

"Oxton," Amélie replies, equally flat.

"What's going on?" Brigitte calls from below.

"We've got a spider problem," Oxton calls back. "What'ya doin' in the rafters, luv?"

"Nothing much," says Amélie. It's true. She's quite literally been doing nothing.

"Kind of a weird conversation to be eavesdroppin' on."

"I was here first," Amélie says. This is also true. Their conversation woke her up.

"Time to come down now, I think," says Oxton, and blinks back down to ground level.

Amélie shifts just far enough to see the group and be seen in return. "And why would I want to do that, chérie?" she asks.

"You know you can just join conversations, right?" Brigitte asks back. Amélie looks at the expressions on Oxton and Zhou's faces and is quite sure that's not true. _Serial killer_ , Zhou had called her. That _is_ true.

"I think not," she answers Brigitte, and drops without bothering to use her grappling hook. She catches herself and rolls smoothly despite the height. "Enjoy your photographs. I'm sure they're quite nice." Amélie leaves.

She hopes Angela won't be spending time with Amari, or that maybe Reinhardt will be free. She doesn't feel like going back to her quiet room.

~~~

One day, on a whim, Amélie starts counting how many times she has to adjust her clothing to keep it from riding up between her legs. She gives up at eighteen within two hours. It doesn't happen when she's lying still, but that's not a solution.

~~~

Fareeha doesn't try talking to her mother about Amélie Lacroix. It's not that she doesn't think her mother might have useful information, but Ana long since came to terms with what Amélie did to her and hasn't seen what the new one is actually like. Her memories, Fareeha suspects, are already either tainted by that direct betrayal, or have been picked over by Ana herself.

Ana's judgement of the inconsistent situation seems to be a resigned, _You think you know a person_. Fareeha needs to be able to bring her something more reasonable than a gut feeling, though she doesn't doubt that her mother will trust Fareeha's instincts. Instinct isn't enough for _Fareeha_.

It's too bad there are so few of the old guard available to talk to, though. A lot of Overwatch agents have died during the intervening years. Of those still alive who also knew the Lacroixs, the number she can explain her sudden questions to seems to be confined to Gibraltar already.

She talks with Torbjörn over a turret prototype he's working on to give the Watchpoint some defences that will both be subtle and not break regulations of war. What the Watchpoint used to have fit neither criteria. After her first question, there's a solid thirty seconds of silence while Torbjörn takes a soldering iron to various wires.

"The thing is," he says finally, speaking to the turret's guts, "those of us who'd been with Overwatch the longest tried to look out for the younger agents. We mourned for the Lacroixs, all of us. I hated Talon for it." He pauses, breathes deep, grim faced. "Now it turns out she was alive and working for Talon the whole time?" Torbjörn shakes his head, seemingly at a loss for words.

"Do you think she killed Gérard?" Fareeha asks. She knows she sounds more like law enforcement than like a friend when she's asking these things, but she hopes her sympathy leaks into her voice at least a little.

"She must have," Torbjörn says. "No struggle, no sign of a break-in. If she didn't do it herself, she let someone else in to do it. And she's a sniper now."

"Did it seem like she and her husband had a good relationship?"

"As good as two people can have," he answers with a shrug.

"They didn't seem strained, or like they had disagreements?"

"No, nothing like that."

Torbjörn's short answers aren't nearly as helpful as Reinhardt's, but they corroborate what he'd said well enough.

"Did she seem scared of him?"

Torbjörn actually looks at her, squinting questioningly. He seems slightly shocked. "No," he says, and looks back down.

"What about resentful?" Fareeha changes tack. "Did she seem like she disliked him or his work?"

"No, no," Torbjörn says insistently. "Amélie seemed to admire Overwatch. She was with Gérard often, and it wasn't difficult to get along with her. We never suspected anything. We probably should have, though." Fareeha's ears perk up, ready for what he'll say next. "In retrospect, Amélie was so unquestionably on our side, but…" he frowns, "then  she went missing. They found her and it seemed like she'd been saved before anything could happen, but considering what happened next… she had to have been getting orders or something." He shrugs. "I don't know."

Fareeha didn't know Amélie had gone missing. "When did this happen?" she asks.

"About a month before Gérard died," says Torbjörn. "She came back and two weeks later he was killed."

"That," seems incredibly suspect, "seems a little too close together for a coincidence."

Torbjörn's unwavering attention on his work is a little intimidating, considering the subject of conversation. "There were a few theories about that. Some people said that it was a dry run for getting at Gérard. Others thought Talon had wanted to keep Amélie until they could strategically use her as a hostage, or so that not knowing what had happened to her would hold Gérard's hand against them. I also heard it proposed that we were _allowed_ to rescue her and her original abduction was," he waggles his head like he's thinking, "a warning. Something like 'we got to her once. Keep fighting us and we will get to her again'. We thought that they had."

"And she didn't seem different at all after this abduction?" Fareeha asks. It seems unbelievable.

"Shaken up, yeah. Emotionally distressed," says Torbjörn. "Understand, I wasn't there for the rescue. I only heard about this after. Apparently she seemed quiet, but physically unharmed. They put it up to shock and released her into her husband's care."

"And she killed him two weeks later."

"Yes."

That's a lot to process. Fareeha remembers saying it herself, to Angela: _Sometimes she acts traumatized_. Amélie had been very reticent regarding her recruitment to Talon.

This was easier when she thought Amélie was just a traitor. Now, Talon is seeming more dangerous by the moment. Not because they seem to be everywhere, and not because of the sorts of skilled mercenaries they have working for them, but because they could take a civilian woman for two weeks and have, if not a loyal agent, at least one who felt no need to leave. _Apathetic_. Angela has implied, in a roundabout way, that Amélie was given emotional suppressants.

"I have another theory about Amélie Lacroix's disappearance," she tells Torbjörn. "Let me run it by you."

~~~

Amélie is laying on the Watchpoint roof, in the shade of a communications array so that anything going by above hopefully can't catch a picture of her. As Gibraltar starts to come out the other side of winter, Angela's sweater is starting to be too warm during the day, so she's folded it up and using it as a pillow.

She's moved from watching the clouds go by and is now tracing the lines of her tattoo, but holding her arm up over her head is tiring and she goes to roll over. As she settles into place on her stomach, she reaches back to adjust her armor, because it's riding up again.

Amélie has an epiphany: she hates this outfit. It is not comfortable. It has _never_ been comfortable. She's not actually certain that she ever didn't hate this outfit. That hate was just too dulled by the injections for her to notice it.

It takes her a mere five minutes to get from the top of the Watchpoint down to the medical wing. She has to readjust the _leotard_ two more times because she's walking so fast.

Amari and Angela both look up at the speed with which she enters the room, and Amélie hesitates for a moment.

"Is something wrong?" Angela asks, standing to meet her.

Amélie decides she doesn't care that Amari is here. "Lend me your pants." She thinks about it and adds, "Or perhaps a skirt would fit better."

Amari's eyebrows are raised. Angela just looks confused.

"I'm sorry, what?" she asks.

"You have been quite willing to lend me your sweaters," Amélie says, a tad techy. "Surely other clothing can not be so difficult."

"No, not at all," Angela says slowly, "but where is this coming from so suddenly?"

"Perhaps I am tired of wearing the same thing all the time," Amélie deflects. It turns out she cares, just a little, whether Amari is here, and doesn't want to go into detail in front of her.

Neither of them look like they believe her, but Angela doesn't push it. "I'm sure I have some spare t-shirts, but I'm not certain any of my pants would fit you," she says, looking Amélie up and down.

Amélie can't help preening a little under the scrutiny, shifting her stance to emphasize her hips. They's wider than Angela's, and her legs are certainly longer. "You think so?" she purrs. Angela pinks. Behind her, Amari barely seems to react, much to Amélie's surprise.

Amari does say, "Will you also be needing underwear?" in such a straightforward tone that Amélie almost wonders if she's mocking her.

The answer is yes, though. That's not helping with the comfort issue.

"Are you offering to lend me underwear, chérie?" Amélie asks with a little smirk.

Amari doesn't rise to the bait, though Angela is tomato red. "I am offering to _buy_ you underwear," says Amari.

Amélie weighs continuing to try to tease the two of them with the possibility of getting proper undergarments and says, "Merci, Madame Amari."

Angela's eyes flick down and almost immediately back up. "Wait-" she says, realization dawning on her face.

Amélie comes dangerously close to laughing out loud. There is a wobble to Amari's mouth that implies she's having a similar difficulty.

Amari raises a hand and thumps it comfortingly on Angela's shoulder. "Don't think too hard about it, Angela," she says.

"It's been months," Angela breathes, embarrassment turning to wide-eyed horror.

Amari shakes her head and passes her phone to Amélie with a note app open. "Give me your sizes and I'll see what I can find," she says.

"I did not know you were so curious about me," Amélie says, loading her tone with implication as she types in the numbers.

Amari leans forward with a smile, and it's a little startling to see her neutral Captain face slip into something so much more human up close. Amélie has never seen this from less than five meters away. Amari matches her throaty tone and says, " _You_ are not my type, _chérie_." She takes the phone out of Amélie's unresisting hand, checks that the information she needs is there, and adds in her normal voice, "I will be back as soon as I can."

"Bis spöter," Angela says as Amari waves over her shoulder and leaves. "Well then," she continues, turning to Amélie, "let's get you something to wear for now, shall we?"

~~~

As expected, Angela's pants don't fit. Wearing a skirt feels strange, too loose and ready to move independently if Amélie starts getting active, but all in all it's a good experience to get out of the old uniform.

Angela smiles when she sees Amélie come out of the bathroom. "You look good," she says.

"I think you just like me in your clothes," Amélie suggests.

"No!" Angela protests. "You just look more comfortable, that is all."

"Of course," Amélie mocks. " _That_ is all." She ties Angela's sweater back around her waist. Angela doesn't stop her.

~~~

Her dream one night is especially vivid.

Amélie is dressed in the Widowmaker's clothing, walking into the bedroom of the modest little house she used to share with Gérard. She leans her rifle against the bedside table and straddles her husband, and her hands don't shake at all as she wraps long blue fingers around his throat. He wakes up as she's killing him and though she knows he can't breathe he still asks, "Why? Why? Why?" She's alone on their wedding bed in Talon's Novosibirsk base, and she looks up at the Reaper where he's standing in the shadows.

"Please," she says. She's speaking French, but she knows he understands anyway. "Please, Reaper, do your job. Take my life." She thinks they were good enough friends that he would grant her this mercy, at least. "You know what it's like, don't you? When you've made it so you can never again be with those you care about?" She's begging. "Please, let me see Gérard again."

Despite the mask, she can see Gabriel's grim-set mouth and big warm eyes through the skeletal features. He levels a shotgun, muzzle against her forehead, and looks sad when he pulls the trigger. It hurts for just a moment, and she is going to see Gérard and-

She wakes alone in her room at Watchpoint Gibraltar. There is a heavy pressure behind her eyes, making her head feel stuffy and her throat tight. The disappointment is thick around her.

Amélie wonders how long she hated Talon without realizing it, too blunted by their drugs to notice. She pulls the blankets she never uses out from under her and wraps them around herself, letting the heat and the mild discomfort pull her the rest of the way back into her body.

Amélie doubts she'll be sleeping again tonight.

Talon snuffed out Amélie Lacroix a long time ago, for all intents and purposes. They black-bagged her on a street in Créteil and she slowly suffocated for a month until Gérard was dead and every reason she had to keep fighting was gone. Widowmaker hasn't had any reason to be Amélie for a very long time.

She knows she's not a good person. Not anymore. Talon stripped away her better instincts and left only an undead monster that kills and kills to fill the void inside it. A thrill-killer. What does she think she's doing here, in Overwatch? Finding ways to feed her awful appetites through the kindness of good people.

Amélie thinks about what it means to be a good person. She thinks about Gérard and Angela. About Reinhard and Brigitte and Amari and Oxton. Torbjörn. Mei-ling Zhou. Winston. She thinks about these good people trying to do the right thing despite the murderer in their midst. About being soft and kind and trusting. About Gérard welcoming the Widowmaker back into his life and his bed so she could strangle him in his sleep.

She doesn't want to hurt these people. She doesn't want to step up behind Angela, absorbed in her work in her offices, and wind a garrote around her neck. Angela, who is trusting and kind and soft, who gets angry and upset and puts steel in her voice when she thinks Amélie isn't taking care of herself. Angela makes her want to be Amélie again.

She feels sick, a little. It's probably for the best that Angela has Fareeha Amari. Amari is good, the quintessential noble hero, her mother's daughter. They get along well, and seem happy. Amélie knows she tempts Angela, but Angela would never cheat, so Amélie will never enter her bed and steal the heat from her body forever.

Talon probably wouldn't bother to reprogram her at this point. She's been off their medications for so long that they'd almost be starting from scratch. It wouldn't be worth it.

Right?

Surely this time Overwatch will notice her become a threat, before she can do anything with it. No matter how much trust she's garnered, they'll never trust her completely. So it's fine.

It's fine that she wants to spend time with Angela, and will always have to take second place to Amari, because that's what will keep Angela safe. There will be no Mercy for someone like her. The thought is bitterly amusing, and Amélie huffs a laugh that could be a dry sob.

Life was easier, in some ways, when she didn't have feelings.

It's too warm now. She has to drop the blankets off her shoulders.

Talon made her a killing machine. The drugs are passing through her system, but that doesn't change what she is in her bones.

She's tired of being blue. Metaphorically. Literally. Everything about the way she's been living, she's tired of. She's tired of staying inside and interacting with the same few people. She's tired of not being able to go into town and relax. She's tired of overheating if she tries to wear regular clothes. She doesn't want to spend the rest of her life in hiding or wrapped in over-warm layers or slathering make-up on her skin whenever she needs to go somewhere where other people are. She's tired of feeling dead inside and she's tired of wearing that death on her face and her arms and the expanse of her tattooed back.

~~~

When Amélie comes to her door, Angela looks up, says, "Salü, Amélie," and turns back to her work. This only emphasizes the problem, as far as Amélie is concerned.

She takes her place on the exam table as usual and watches Angela work. Amélie lets her eyes trace over the arch of Angela's neck, the way her fingers wrap around her stylus, the drape of her ponytail. Angela is beautiful. It's a shame she and Amari can't reproduce. The two of them together would produce ridiculously attractive children that Amélie could never be near for fear of hating them on principle.

"How much is your consultation fee, doctor?" Amélie asks.

Angela turns her head to look at her curiously, and then turns her chair completely when she seems to realize that Amélie is serious.

"What's wrong?" Angela asks. Straight to the point.

"As I recall it, you are something of a genius and a pioneer in your field," says Amélie.

"Not a _genius_ ," Angela says uncomfortably. "That's certainly overstating things."

"Nevertheless," Amélie continues, "you are very good at what you do."

"Well. Yes. I wouldn't have been scouted for Overwatch if I wasn't."

"How much of an undertaking would it be, doctor, to reverse-engineer and undo my augmentations?"

Angela's eyes go wide, and her jaw is taut. Amélie can't place the emotion. Shock. Outrage. Fear. None of those would make sense.

"I'm sorry, Amélie," Angela says. Amélie isn't sure if she's imagining the shake in her voice. "I can't do anything about that."

Is Angela lying to her? "Surely that is not true," Amélie answers. "Did you not build a man out of living metal? Did you not engineer nanobots that can bring a person back from the brink of death? You have worked with augmentations before-"

Angela cuts her off, much to her surprise. "This is different. Reverse-engineering without any idea of how the process was achieved to begin with would be nearly impossible, and I refuse to risk harming you irreparably in an attempt to save you."

"I know what your nanomachines can do," says Amélie angrily. "Irreparable harm no longer exists for you."

"My nanomachine therapies are not as perfect as you think," says Angela. Her back is ramrod straight, stubborn, but she's not looking at Amélie. She's _refusing_ to look at Amélie.

Amélie is angry. "Bordel de merde! I do not understand why you refuse to help me," she says.

"There's no need for such language. It can't be done," Angela says to the wall.

"You won't even _try_ ," Amélie accuses.

"I will not," says Angela. "Stop asking."

Amélie doesn't need to keep her promise if Angela is throwing her out like this. There are a lot of cruel things she could say right now. _You were right, you're not an angel at all_. _So much for your claims of altruism. I wondered if there was a limit to how friendly you would be to me. You would chastise me for the deaths of Talon agents but my life is worth nothing to you._

She swallows them down, every single one, bitter poison burning through her. She stands up to go to the door, and stops when she comes even with Angela.

"I will see you later, then, Doctor," Amélie says shortly. Angela's eyes are on the floor now. She may be shaking. Amélie walks out before she can say anything regrettable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops cliff hanger.
> 
> Thanks again for reading and for all of the support, guys. I'm so glad that so many people are enjoying this fic, it's incredibly heartening :)
> 
> If you haven't yet, maybe consider hitting that kudos button or leaving a comment to let me know if you, too, are enjoying this fic. Also, 'cause it's come up: don't be afraid to let me know if you're confused about something that's happened, or to discuss how I present stuff here. I like talking about the writing/story choices I made and explaining stuff from an analytical perspective, so you're not bothering me at all.
> 
> Anyway, that's it for this week. See you next Friday~


	7. All Our Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger, folks. Between the last chapter, this one, and the next, A Lot Of Stuff happens and I had to make some difficult choices about where to put the chapter breaks. The next break, at least, should be less infuriating :)
> 
> Oh look! The chapters all have titles now! Perhaps a bit late in the game to add them, but the fact that the chapter index went straight from Prologue to 2 was driving me up the wall.
> 
> **EDIT** : Who has two thumbs and forgot to credit their translator this whole time? THIS GUY. If it's in this fic and written in French, it was translated by [billsgotabeard](https://billsgotabeard.tumblr.com/), who very patiently dealt with ten million text messages. (If you are from the future and know this already, it's because I retroactively added credit into the older chapters. So much retroactive editing happening this week!)

****Amélie would be glad that Torbjörn has gotten the shooting range in full working order if she could feel anything through the haze of rejection and anger. She doesn't have to think while she runs through a training course, over and over again, until her arms burn with the weight of the practice gun.

~~~

After Amélie walks out, Angela slides the door closed and breaks down. It has been years since she was faced with her past mistakes, and now the ghost of Amélie Lacroix has yanked it all back to the front. Amélie wants her help, and all Angela can think is, _I wouldn't realize I was killing her until it was too late_.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Angela has made a highway out of them and then sent other people down it. Right now, if she closes her eyes, she can still see Gabriel Reyes' screaming corpse dissolving into ash and smoke. It haunted her dreams for months after she was done signing death certificates for the victims of the Swiss Base explosion.

_I'm not pure_ , she had told Amélie. Now, like a coward, she couldn't, _wouldn't_ even explain herself to the woman. This is the first time that Amélie has indicated any _desire_ to be something other than what she is. The last time they spoke of it, Amélie had talked about going back to normal as if it was a punishment. Now she's asked Angela for help, and it's the only help Angela can't possibly give her.

Not again.

There's a lot of logical reasons why Angela can't just up and fix Amélie, but they aren't why her mind is spinning apart right now.

She's been bracing herself already. Genji will be coming back at some point, and she'll have to look at the weapon she helped turn him into once more. The footage Winston showed them of the Reaper's attack on the Watchpoint is unmistakably of Gabriel's unhappy wraith. All at once, the consequences of a lifetime ago have come barreling over the horizon and she's paralyzed in front of them like a deer in headlights.

And now Amélie Lacroix, a mistake she wasn't even responsible for, has knocked the breath from her before she was ready. Amélie's voice had broken when she asked why Angela wouldn't help.

There's a knock at her door. Angela jumps up, opens the door in a rush, starts to say, "Amélie-" before she realizes who's actually there.

Of course Fareeha notices that something is wrong. Angela hadn't exactly hidden it. "Angela? What happened?" she asks, reaching out to stabilize her.

"I-" Angela starts, stops, tries to figure out what to say and how. She feels like the universe itself is sending her a message: here are the consequences. Genji. Gabriel. Amélie. Fareeha. Each situation worse than it had to be, because Angela didn't confess to her mistakes.

"I need to tell you something," she says to Fareeha.

"Did something happen with Amélie?" Fareeha asks.

"Yes," Angela admits, "but that doesn't matter." She doesn't want to do this in the office. Despite everything, it's managed to be a good place here at Gibraltar. "We should go somewhere more private. To talk."

"If you think that would be best." Fareeha frowns down at her and keeps a hand on Angela's arm as they walk out of the medical wing. There's a lot of room in the Gibraltar base. Angela decides on one of the unused communal areas, big and dusty and a perfect metaphor for Overwatch's faded glory. Angela wipes a circle of dust off a low table so she can sit down. Fareeha flips the cushions on one of the couches. Opening a window lets in the cool winter air and stirs the dead atmosphere.

Fareeha lets them sit in silence, waiting for Angela to get her thoughts in order. Angela already has her words figured out. She knows exactly what she needs to say. She's just hesitating again.

"Amélie came to me today," she finally forces out. "She asked me if I could help undo the augmentations that Talon gave her."

Whatever Fareeha's been expecting, it's clearly not that. "Well," she says, surprise settling out of her expression and leaving her looking less like she's braced for battle, "that certainly doesn't seem like a bad thing…" She leaves the sentence hanging, ready for Angela to explain why, exactly, it's a bad thing.

"I can't do it," Angela says.

"If anyone can do it, I'm sure you can," Fareeha says. Her reassurance drives the knife in deeper. _You lied_ , Angela reminds herself. _You hid your mistakes and your failures, and now everyone thinks you can do no wrong_.

"It is not a matter of skill. I… _should_ not do it."

Fareeha cocks her head. "Why not?"

There it is: the question Angela doesn't want to answer.

"I-" If she is going to confess, she should confess all the way. Not just the failure, but the cause of it. "When I was doing my residency, I remember hearing a nurse say that the worst sorts of doctors were the ones who thought that the most important thing was keeping the patient alive."

Fareeha is clearly unsure of where this is going, but she nods thoughtfully. "Go on."

"I did not understand what they meant," Angela says. "I thought it was the most ridiculous thing to be judgemental about. As long as the patient lived, anything else- we could take care of anything else afterwards. Whatever other problems they had could be fixed, as long as they were alive."

"Get the job done and clean up after," Fareeha translates.

"Yes."

"Tell me why you now think the nurse was right." It's not a question. Angela is a little amazed at how quickly Fareeha picks up on the end step. She'd have expected Fareeha's line of thought to be more in line with her younger self than with the nurse.

"It was about quality of life," Angela says. "She meant that the _way_ the patient lives is- well, not _more_ important but-"

"It determines whether the job was worth doing in the first place," says Fareeha.

"If keeping the patient alive after surgery ruins their ability to be who they were, they may not feel they were saved at all," says Angela.

"I understand."

"When I was younger, I- I did not question myself. I only wanted to save lives," says Angela. "The first time I ever questioned it was-" she finds herself looking down, avoiding Fareeha's gaze like she had avoided Amélie's, and forces herself to look back up, "with Genji. His reconstruction."

"Explain," says Fareeha. "I know very little about that."

"I did not like the way that Genji was recruited," Angela says. "It was manipulative. Ethically unjustifiable. But what could I do about it? Protest and leave him to die?" Angela shakes her head fiercely. "I saved his life. We rebuilt his body, and then Overwatch sent him to destroy his family." The very memory of it makes her sick. "I spent a lot of time with him, while we were trying to get him back to full health." Or something like that. The terminology is strange, when it comes to a cyborg. "He did not seem to hold it against me, but… he was so angry. Curt, and sad, and- It makes sense, after everything he'd been through, that he would be upset. But…"

"But?" Fareeha prompts when Angela doesn't continue.

"But I wondered, a little, what sort of life I'd saved him to have. Angry and betrayed and killing people. And over the years, he seemed to hate the body we had built for him more and more. I wondered, and still wonder, if he would have preferred to die as a man than live as a machine."

"Is that how you think of it, or how you think he would think of it?" asks Fareeha.

Angela barks a choked laugh. "I don't know anymore. I think he may have said something about it, once, and the words stuck with me. He hasn't brought it up again. I know he's not a machine, but everyone treated him as one. Maybe those of us who should have known better started to believe it."

Fareeha looks like she's thinking over what Angela has said. "And this is why you don't think you should work on Amélie? Because you're questioning the quality of life of the last person you augmented?"

Angela could say yes, and keep her shameful secrets in the shadows.

"No," she admits. "At the end of the day, Genji had chosen to live, and I had saved him. What for was irrelevant. I remained certain that I had done the right thing."

"What's the problem, then?"

"Every time that I have done extensive body modification on a- a friend of mine," even if she hadn't considered Genji a friend yet, even if she and Gabriel hadn't always gotten along well, "it has ended poorly for them. I don't want to do that to Amélie."

"'Every time'?" Fareeha parrots. Bless Fareeha Amari, immediately focussing on the key words despite Angela hiding them in the rest of the sentence.

Angela takes a deep breath to steel herself. "You know what my Caduceus Staff can do?"

If Fareeha is confused by the change of subject, it doesn't throw her. "Yes. It remotely directs semi-autonomous nanites to stabilize and heal patients, allowing them to recover from anything short of complete brain death."

"Correct. But that was not the original purpose of the Caduceus Staff," Angela says.

"What was it, then?"

"As originally conceived, the Caduceus Staff would not only have saved people on the brink of death," says Angela. "It would have reversed death itself."

Fareeha looks amazed, and a little disturbed. "Ambitious," she says. "Do you intend to upgrade the current model, then?"

"You don't understand," Angela says with a shake of her head. "The current model does not need upgrading. It is a downgrade."

Fareeha is putting the pieces together. She asks, slowly, "Did you ever test the original version?"

Angela closes her eyes, pained, and nods. "After the fall of the Swiss base, I was called in to care for the victims caught in the explosion and subsequent structural collapse. At the time, the original prototype of the Caduceus Staff had just been finished." She breathes, trying to keep up her courage. This is the part that will hurt Fareeha. "When we were clearing the rubble, some of the workers found the remains of Gabriel Reyes."

Her will to explain things falters in the face of Fareeha's wide eyes, the way her mouth tightens.

"I tried to save him," Angela confesses.

Fareeha swallows. "It didn't work?" she asks weakly.

"Not- not as intended." Angela's voice breaks. Fareeha is breathing hard, clearly trying to keep her composure.

"What-" Fareeha stops, rallies, and her voice is barely stronger when she starts again. "What happened?"

"He-" This is the hardest thing Angela has ever had to do. "He woke up, and he-" she shouldn't give Fareeha too many details. Fareeha doesn't deserve to know how his screams echoed in her ears, or about the smell of burning flesh, "he was obviously in a lot of pain. Then he appeared to die again." Fareeha's hands are gripped together, white-knuckled. "He woke up again," Angela continues weakly. His skin had ripped and dissolved farther each time, and the force of his voice had fallen away as his screams ripped his throat apart, and- "This repeated several times, despite my best efforts to stop it. Eventually, his body fell apart."

Fareeha's head is bowed over her hands, hair curtaining her face. Her hands are shaking.

"I'm sorry-" Angela starts.

"Stop," says Fareeha. "Just. Give me a moment."

Angela will give Fareeha as many moments as she needs. She watches Fareeha raise her hands and brace them against her mouth, pressing into them like she's praying. She might be.

"Continue," Fareeha orders.

"There is not much more to say," Angela tells her. "The test had failed, horribly. I hamstrung the Caduceus Staff on the spot, so that I could save the others, but I didn't go near the other bodies with it. I have never tried it again."

Fareeha nods, face still pressed into her hands, eyes down.

"They said," Fareeha says slowly, muffled by her knuckles, "that there wasn't enough of him found for an open casket."

"His body was reduced to ash."

"Ash?" Fareeha asks.

"Yes," Angela says. "For years, I thought that in his final moments I had," she says the words she's never said out loud, "tortured him until he expired."

"And now?" The moment Fareeha asks, Angela is certain that she's also thinking of a video of a man in black, wielding two shotguns and dissolving into thick, heavy smoke.

"Ever since Winston showed us the video of the Reaper, I have feared the staff might have worked after all," Angela confirms.

Fareeha takes a deep, shaky breath, curling in a little farther.

"I'm sorry," Angela tries again. "I'm sorry. I- I shouldn't have told you-"

"No," Fareeha says sharply. "You should have told _some_ one, _much_ sooner."

"I know," Angela agrees miserably.

~~~

Amélie is doing stretches in the shooting range when Athena calls her to the big bank of computers that serves as Winston's "office." It still has a large piece of cardboard over one of the windowed walls from the Reaper's attack, even though it's been nearly a year. She drags her feet getting there, taking the time to pack everything neatly away in the back of her mind and not think about it. She's still warm from her exercise: the sweater goes around her waist and she's looped the bottom of the t-shirt up through the neckhole so more of her skin will be exposed to the chilly air without upsetting the delicate sensibilities of the Watchpoint's other inhabitants.

Winston is not alone in his office. Oxton, Amari, and Angela are there too, all looking quite serious. Angela's eyes are still downcast. She must have reported their earlier conversation. It's only logical; Amélie's here for her abilities as a sniper, and asking to undo the enhancements that make her better at that surely jeopardizes her position with Overwatch.

"Amélie. Thank you for coming so quickly," Winston greets her. He's being polite. Amélie knows she didn't come quickly at all.

Amélie's eyes scan over the other inhabitants. There's more space in between Amari and Angela than usual. Interesting. "What is this about?" she asks, playing dumb. If she has to make an escape, the cardboard is going to be the easiest way to do it. Losing her equipment will be bad.

"I know it's been awhile since I asked you for information about Talon," Winston starts, "but something's come up."

Amélie has no idea how this has anything to do with her request to Angela. "Go on, then," she prompts.

"Athena, if you would please bring up the images from the Talon attack?" Winston says.

"Of course, Winston," Athena says, and the monitors fill up with shots of the Reaper fighting Winston just one floor down from where they're currently standing. It's starting to occur to Amélie that this has nothing to do with her.

"Do you know what was happening here?" Winston asks.

"An information retrieval mission," Amélie answers. "I could not tell you much more than that. I was in London at the time." Her eyes flicker to Oxton, who glares in return.

"Could you tell us about Reaper, though?" Winston says. "You've worked with him a few times."

"More than a few times," Amélie corrects, relaxing against the edge of one of the desks opposite Oxton's own perch. "We regularly ran missions together. We made a good team."

"What can you tell us about him?" Winston asks.

That depends. "About the Reaper?" Amélie specifies, choosing to lie through technicality. "Not much. He was a mercenary with a standing contract with Talon. Strange abilities. Very difficult to injure. He was a bit of a tactician, too. Liked his plans. Liked for them to go smoothly. I doubt I am telling you much you don't already know."

It's harder to read a gorilla's facial expressions than it is to read humans', who already give Amélie regular difficulty, but she's fairly certain Winston is quite aware that she's giving them a bare minimum. He always did suspect she was being difficult on purpose.

"Do you know who he is?" Winston asks.

_Oh_. Across the room, Angela's folded arms tighten, and Amari gives her a sidelong glance. Curiouser and curiouser. Amélie continues to play her hand close to her chest.

"Technically, no," she says.

"But you have a suspicion?" Amari asks.

Amélie scans the room again, a lazy skim of her eyes. There's a tension to the agents, all Overwatch veterans or close enough to count, that can only mean one thing. _They know_. Amélie is not here to reveal the answer. She is here to confirm it.

"I might," she admits with a smile.

Oxton clearly tires of the game. "Commander Reyes," she says.

"Indeed," says Amélie.

The answer doesn't take the tension out of the room, but it changes the tenor of it. Fareeha Amari looks very much like her mother right now, at attention and ready to get to work. Winston gives a resounding, weary sigh.

"What made you suspect?" Winston asks.

Amélie raises an eyebrow. "Vous n'êtes pas sérieux. Surely the fighting style was a clue."

"When we thought he was dead, we had to assume it was a separate individual with similar enhancements," Amari says.

Amélie gives that explanation its due consideration. "I suppose," she says. "And he has crafted himself rather a fantastic persona. I admit, if he had changed his weapon of choice, I would never have recognized the man."

"You didn't consider it strange he was supposed to be dead, luv?" Oxton asks.

"Of course I did. But he also made quite a number of jokes alluding to the fact," Amélie says.

"He didn't strike me as the joking type when we met," Winston says.

Amélie shrugs. "I know my sense of humor is not what it used to be, but I am still fairly certain they were jokes, though he never laughed. No one else did, either. But as I recall it, Reyes always had a somewhat strange sense of humor. I did wonder about how he'd managed it, though." Angela flinches, and it seems as though everyone in the room in momentarily paying attention to her. Realization blooms like a flower.

"Why didn'tcha tell us about him earlier, luv?" Oxton asks, turning her attention back from Angela. Amélie wonders which of them she's actually asking.

"Like I said, chérie, I did not actually _know_ ," Amélie answers with another shrug. "We had an associate who I am almost certain knew his old identity, but I never asked. We were… friends, of a sort. I saw no reason to volunteer information about him if you people did not ask."

Oxton is clearly displeased with the answer. "If you were such good friends, can you tell us what he's thinkin', joinin' up with Talon?"

"I can not," says Amélie, and continues before anyone can accuse her of being deliberately unhelpful again. "I never knew his motives. I can tell you only that I got the impression he was loyal to Talon in the same way I was. The moment that their usefulness was ended, his contract with them would be worth as much as tissue paper. Perhaps less," she adds, "since tissue paper can at least make a nice decoration."

No one else seems to see the humor in the statement. Shame.

"You think he'll leave Talon?" Amari says.

"Chérie, I would not be surprised if he already has," says Amélie. "Do you recall that when I defected I said Overwatch was making itself quite a nuisance? I could tell he was thinking the same thing. It was part of why I left when I did."

"Do you think that's why he wasn't at the operation that you and Lena interrupted?" Winston asks.

"It could be," Amélie confirms. "Désolé. That is all I can tell you. Whatever his ulterior motives, they were kept from everyone."

Winston rubs his forehead. It's a very human gesture. He always acts very human. "Is there anything else we need to cover, Athena?" he asks the computer.

"If it's possible to update Reaper's known associates and locations, we should do so," Athena says.

Sombra. _Speaking of ulterior motives_. Who knows what will come of that. "I do not know how Talon contacted him for jobs. Sometimes I would go on an op, and he would be there. It was not my job to know more than that."

"Alright," Winson sighs. He really does sound tired. Amélie wonders whether he would have chosen to lead Overwatch if there had been anyone else to do it. "You can go for now. If you think of anything pertinent, let us know?"

"I will," Amélie says. She won't. It's not her fault they've already forgotten that she said they would need to ask. She can feel their eyes on her back as she leaves.

~~~

The beauty of an office surrounded by high windows is that there are any number of angles Amélie could choose to watch things unfold. Oxton has probably already shared her knowledge of Amélie's hiding places, but no one seems used to expecting her to be there. Possibly Angela would, but she's clearly distracted.

By the time Amélie has retrieved her grapple and made her way into the ceiling, their discussion is well underway. It's a shame she can't read lips. The words being said are probably important.

She shakes the wrinkles out of the shirt and puts the sweater back on while she waits. The sweat has long since dried off her skin.

Watching the Overwatch agents reveals little. Angela is definitely in trouble. Maybe that's too strong a term. She will probably face no punishment beyond the social. But no one is pleased with her.

Based on the screens, they seem to be trying to reanalyze the Reaper's movements in light of this new information. She can't read anything from here. A few faces flash up that look familiar from her days as Amélie Lacroix, but it's otherwise uninformative.

Poor Reaper. Unless Amélie has drastically misread these people, all of Overwatch is about to know who he is. It's going to be difficult to keep up the theatrics if they're scrutinizing every line and fashion choice.

Despite not being able to read lips, Amélie can tell when Winston says, _This isn't getting us anywhere_. Or something to that effect. It's evident in the defeated slumps of everyone's shoulders, and screens closing down moments later.

She moves into place as the group splits up, stopping above Angela and Amari. They're still oddly stilted with each other. Amélie can hear Amari saying, "- need some time, Angela. This is... a lot."

"Of course," Angela says. They are silent for a moment. Then Amari pats her on the shoulder, stiff but familiar, and walks away.

Amélie gives Amari a moment to be gone, and drops smoothly out of the rafters. Angela jumps.

"You are the reason for Reaper's current state?" she asks.

Angela finally actually looks at her. "Yes," she says. "It was not what I intended but…"

"We all have our regrets," Amélie finishes for her. "So you said before."

"Yes," Angela says again, looking down at their feet.

"Knowing now what you were talking about," Amélie says cooly, "I think your regrets do not compare to my crimes."

"I unethically experimented on my friend and turned him into a living ghost," Angela says bluntly. "Now he's an unstoppable serial killer. People are dead because of me."

Amélie stares pointedly at her until Angela finally looks at her. "What?" Angela asks.

"It seems you are far less willing to forgive yourself for lives taken by someone else than you are to forgive me for the lives I myself took," Amélie says. "You must _really_ like having me around, to show me such lenience."

"That's not- it's-" Angela's words fail her.

"Hypocrite," Amélie says fondly. "Do you fear you will reduce me to an ash cloud if you try to correct my physical alterations?"

"Obviously not that specifically," Angela says. Her expression is almost a pout. Cute. "Gabriel was not my only failure, just my most dramatic one." The pout turns into something more directly sad. Amélie doesn't prefer it. "None of my forays into, shall we say, life-altering body modification have gone well for the people involved, and I knew more about what I was dealing with then. I don't want you to be the next person whose life I destroy."

Amélie's life was already destroyed. "That is sweet of you," she says to Angela, "but it is not the same. My modifications serve only to make me into," she doesn't know if the emphasis stings Angela more or herself, "an _unstoppable serial killer_."

Angela gives her a peculiar look, like she's trying to see through her. Amélie doesn't like the feeling of being laid bare.

"Still," Amélie moves on, "your concern is not unreasonable. You have told me since the beginning that my physical state is an impossibility."

"If I can not understand what has been done, I can do very little about it," Angela says sadly.

"I should not have asked it of you," Amélie almost apologizes. Now that the relentless rush of emotion-- of fear and regret and crushed desperate hope-- has tapered off with time and explanations, she's realized how unlikely the option was to begin with. The danger that she poses-- to Angela, to Reinhardt and Brigitte, to the others-- will not be solved by a rapid heartbeat and the renewed ability to feel the cold. "It was an emotional impulse, not a reasonable one. You are not, after all, a miracle worker. Not all the time," she adds with a little smirk.

Angela's little chuckle is breathy and relieved, tired. "It might be possible to find someone whose specialty is better suited to your situation, given time. As long as your expectations are realistic," she says.

"Is Madame Amari not so forgiving as I thought?" Amélie asks, changing the subject in favor of her curiosity.

"She was close with Gabriel," says Angela, tense again. "Of course she's upset."

"She has been quite willing to interact with me," Amélie points out.

"Fareeha had three days to prepare for your appearance," Angela counters. "I'm willing to give her time."

Amélie doesn't know what to say to that. Three days doesn't seem long enough to greet your mother's murderer. The silence is awkward for a moment before Angela scrunches up her nose and says, "Why do you smell like old sweat?"

"I went to work out after our little disagreement," Amélie answers. "This meeting called me away from it."

Now Angela is looking at her with horror. "That was yesterday!" she gasps. "Have you slept? Have you _eaten_?"

It can't have been that long, right? Amélie tries to count back the hours through the haze of practice bullets, and can't. Maybe it has indeed been that long. "It's fine," she says. "I don't need to eat that often-"

"Bull," Angela declares. She's not wrong. After that much physical activity, Amélie really _should_ eat. "You are going to shower and I am going to get you a change of clothes, and then you are going to eat. This is ridiculous."

"Do you fuss so over Madame Amari?" Amélie asks, letting Angela drag her towards the living areas.

"Yes, I do," Angela answers. "But I only have to worry about her taking care of herself in combat. _You_ can't seem to take care of yourself _at all_."

"I can handle myself just fine," Amélie asks, playing up the annoyance in her voice despite not actually feeling it much at all. She didn't particularly _need_ to take care of herself when Talon was handling her.

Gérard never came home to find that she hadn't eaten or slept for several days. She's used to thinking of this as normal for her, but it's only now occurring to her that maybe it wasn't always.

"Prove it," Angela challenges her. Amélie figures that, again, she can at least _try_.

~~~

Fareeha feels like a hypocrite, looking at her mother's contact information on the phone, under the pseudonym _Janina Kowalska_. She's not sure how much she's actually allowed to be upset at Angela for hiding the information about Gabriel, all things considered.

The web of hidden knowledge and outright lies involved in Overwatch would be disillusioning if Fareeha hadn't already figured out that war wasn't as glamorous as her child self had thought.

She's probably allowed to be at least a little upset about Angela using him as a test subject, though that's somewhat mitigated by the fact that he had been _dead_. Now he's not dead, and she's not sure if that's better or worse and whether the way that he was saved affects the answer.

It's complicated. Her mind is still spinning through cycles of emotional noise more than rational thought.

Fareeha tries to take a steadying breath. The breath succeeds; steadying herself, not so much. She should, if nothing else, call her mother and let her know about Gabriel. Ana both needs to know, and _deserves_ to know.

After that? She doesn't know. Screaming into a pillow sounds good.

Maybe she'll check with her mother about the possibility of ending the lie. She could do it outright. Or she could feed Overwatch little hints, like she had about Amélie's identity. It would be nice to no longer be a secret keeper. Fareeha was clearly not made for covert ops.

She tries another breath. It's only slightly more successful. Fareeha hits the call button.

~~~

Amari took three days to accept Amélie's presence, and two months to appear close to comfortable with it. In light of this, the fact that she and Angela appear to make up after a week while still being on the awkward side seems expected.

Amélie wonders if Angela is sleeping in her barely-lived-in room during this time or if Amari has been the one to go elsewhere. She never checks. It's more personal than she wants to know.

~~~

Winston calls a meeting. Amélie has never seen the makeshift conference room this full, and it throws into relief how very empty the base is. Eleven agents. Ten, if you consider Amari's tentative position, which Amélie doesn't. Helix or no, Amari's heart clearly lies with Overwatch. She wouldn't be here so much otherwise.

Amélie positions herself to the side, not really in the main group. She doesn't belong there.

Winston and Oxton, it seems, have been busy. Athena projects a list of contacts and logistics that makes Amélie's head spin. This isn't her line of work, the details. She kills people. She's not the only one here whose managerial experience is lacking, but she may be the most specialized of them. When she's not shooting, she's sleeping. Not many people can say that.

It's a good thing she's not a Talon spy, she thinks, as Winston outlines his proposal for the new organizational model for the new Overwatch. "Territory based agents," he says. The projected globe pops up with a bunch of flags. Amélie sees Oxton, codename Tracer, pop up on London. Angela, as Mercy, is in the Middle East somewhere. Amari, "Pharah", flags up in Cairo. Zhou is Mei, and her flag plants itself almost in the middle of Asia. Torbjörn in Russia, Reinhardt in Greenland. No Brigitte. Winston remains in Gibraltar. From somewhere on the opposite side of the globe float labels for McCree and Genji.

If these are territories, they're unevenly spaced, to say the least.

"These are the locations of our currently responding agents when I sent out the recall," Winston informs them, "though, obviously, it has some gaps." Presumably Brigitte, possibly Amélie. "Some of us have other commitments," he says with a nod to Amari, "and staying here when the United Nations isn't sending work to us obviously leads to a lot of downtime. What I'm proposing is that our agents continue to move around to trouble spots as we've been doing, but with the added resources, organization, and backup that comes of keeping in contact. Fareeha, McCree, and anyone else who has a reason to stay in one area can do so, and call for help if greater force is necessary. Others can keep moving around as they choose, or can be sent where we notice a need."

Brigitte is the one to raise her hand. Winston points to her and she says, " _Is_ there anyone else who needs to stay in one area?"

"Not yet," Winston admits. "We're hoping to recruit others, though, and a lot of the people who come up on Athena's radar are already doing things that aren't mutually exclusive with the sort of work Overwatch does."

"Like Pharah's work at the Temple of Anubis," Oxton clarifies.

"Yes. Or the Russian specialists with Volskaya Industries," adds Winston. "With the Siberian Omnium doing so much damage, it seems likely that Volskaya would accept any help to shut that down. It would be a mutually beneficial deal."

Amélie frowns at the word choice. "'Seems likely'?" she asks.

"You've already started contacting them," Torbjörn accuses.

"There have been some overtures," says Winston. "There are already people who share our ethics and cause who dedicated themselves through other means. Bringing them into the web, sharing resources and information, would be a chance for both them _and_ us to do something _more_."

"The tacit support of major world governments and corporations would also be to our benefit, considering the current state of the Petras Act," Athena comments.

"Well," says Reinhardt, "I certainly am not opposed to going back out into the field. Being cooped up here was making me stir-crazy!"

"I was already planning to be making more trips to recover data," adds Zhou.

"It's been lucky that none of my old tech's raised its head lately," Torbjörn admits.

Amari doesn't have to say anything, since they already know she's got a job to go back to. Oxton doesn't seem like the type to stay in one place if her sweetheart isn't there, and Amélie knows she suggested the idea to begin with. Angela would probably love to keep being a doctor without borders.

Amélie wonders which option would have been more difficult for Winston: universal agreement, or universal disagreement. As it stands, he and Amélie are the only two who can't immediately pack up and leave.

Even if the others keep passing through when they check in, this base would be very lonely if it were only her and the ape and the A.I.

Amélie's not sure she wouldn't have preferred for someone to voice opposition. That's unfortunate.

"Um. Before everyone starts making plans to leave," Winston says hesitantly. Maybe he doesn't like the idea of living alone with Amélie, either. It's not like they get along particularly poorly, but their interactions to date have been lackluster and strictly professional. "Gibraltar would remain as a command center and a fall-back point for anyone who needed it." Amélie smirks to herself. He definitely doesn't want to be alone with her. "And we've identified three fronts that we think should be Overwatch's primary focuses for now."

The map changes, personnelle flags blinking away to be replaced with primary colored dots: a large red one in Siberia, another large blue one in the East China Sea, and a scattering of small yellow points mostly clustered across Europe.

"As I mentioned, Russia's problems with the Siberian Omnium threaten both the people in the immediate territory, as well as world peace beyond that. If the Russian line breaks, more civilians are going to die, and in the meantime the news about this inflates anti-omnic tensions worldwide. This is priority one," Winston informs them. As he speaks, Athena obligingly highlights the red dot, flashing up shots of Volskaya industries, their weaponry and their still-living CEO, followed by crowd shots of protests and riots and anti-omnic graffiti.

"South Korea," Winston continues, the screen flashing up in blue and showing a towering omnic and a line of pilots standing next to their MEKAs, "has been combatting this omnic for twenty years now. It keeps learning, and while they seem to have the situation under control for now, we can't let it overwhelm them. They shouldn't be fighting it alone."

The yellow lights flare, and Talon's logo blossoms across the projection. Around it are various relevant faces: Amélie and Reaper on one side, Gérard on the other, and, speaking poorly of Overwatch's information network, a line of agents and accomplices she knows she gave them the names of to begin with down below. The globe isn't high resolution, but she's certain most of the positions now highlighted came from her, too.

"Talon is a terrorist organization that's been around for… well, for awhile now," Winston says. "Despite their constant presence, we know very little about them, their goals, their methods… and that's even with inside information." Oxton is trying to discreetly stare at her. It's annoying. "They've been around in some form or another for at least ten years. Overwatch Agent Gérard Lacroix was heading the task-force investigating them, but when he," there's the slightest hesitation, "was assassinated I'm afraid things began to fall apart. The organization went underground, and when they came back up we weren't able to-"

Oxton's frown isn't her normal frown. "Amélie, luv, are you crying?" she asks.

She's not. Everyone is looking at her now.

"Oh!" Winston gasps. "I'm sorry, I didn't think-"

"I am fine," Amélie says. Why does her voice sound shaky?

She touches a hand to her cheek, and her fingers come away damp. That's not supposed to happen. She looks at the water on her fingers in confusion. She can't feel the tears, as cold as the rest of her, but there they are.

"I am fine," Amélie repeats, more defensively. Her voice is still shaking.

"We're almost done here, if you need to leave," Winston offers.

Amélie wipes the water off her face and refuses to acknowledge the heavy feeling in her chest.

"No," she insists, though she's starting to think she may be lying.

Angela starts to stand, but Amari puts a hand on her arm and gently guides her back down. It's Amari herself who approaches Amélie instead.

"I need to speak to you," she says quietly. "I'd prefer to do it in private, if you're alright with that."

The words are a suggestion, but her tone sounds certain of Amélie's compliance. It's an escape without escaping. Amélie takes it.

"This seems strange timing," Amélie says, trying for her cocky smile. It doesn't feel like it's working. "But if you insist, we can go somewhere private, chérie."

"I will be back momentarily, Winston," Amari says over her shoulder.

The room watches them leave, Amari's hand against Amélie's arm as if she needs steadying.

Amari doesn't take her far, just to the kitchen. They sit on opposite sides of the table. Amélie checks her face again, and finds she has to wipe away more tears. She feels like she's leaking.

"Do you want some water?" Amari asks.

"No," says Amélie. She does, now that she thinks of it. "What did you need to speak to me about? Or were you making something up to get me to stop making a scene?"

"I realize this may not be the right time to ask, but I'm afraid it has suddenly become pertinent," Amari says. Amélie appreciates that she gets straight to business when prompted. "You are a bit of an enigma, do you realize that?"

"It is a carefully crafted air, I assure you," Amélie says. She thinks she manages to shift into the half-lidded come-hither look without too much trouble. Maybe her body is willing to start cooperating again.

"The thing about you that I can't figure out," Amari says, as if Amélie hadn't flirted with her at all, "is why you would work for Talon. You were not loyal to them. You were not always blood-thirsty. If they had paid you well enough, you could have disappeared onto a tropical island instead of coming to us."

Amélie's body isn't cooperating. She feels like her heart is in a vice. Emotions are too much.

"I need you to tell me," Amari continues, very gently, like she's speaking to a child, "what could make Amélie Lacroix kill Gérard."

"Nothing," Amélie hears herself choke. It's the hardest confession she's ever made, and it spills out of her with ease. "Nothing could have done that. Amélie Lacroix would have died before she would have hurt Gérard. So they killed her."

"When they abducted you?" Amari asks.

"When they abducted me," Amélie confirms.

"How did they implant the kill order?" asks Amari. Amélie takes a very, very long breath, and Amari says, "No, it's alright, you don't have to answer. But it was something like that, right? You resisted it as long as you could."

"Not long enough," Amélie replies. Her voice is still watery, but her eyes are no longer dripping.

"And then you returned to Talon?"

"They picked me up," Amélie clarifies softly. She adds, "It didn't seem worth resisting anymore."

"I appreciate your telling me," says Amari.

Amélie takes a breath. She's feeling steadier by the second, away from the accusing eyes of Gérard's photograph. "Why were you so curious to know?" she asks.

"A lot of reasons," Amari says, a chagrined twist to her mouth. "I wanted to know about the person who took my mother from me. And I wanted to know about the woman Angela has been fussing over so." Amélie's breath catches annoyingly. "But those aren't very good reasons."

"Then why?" Amélie demands.

Amari looks bemused. "If you would let me finish?"

Amélie makes a _carry on_ gesture.

"When I looked too hard at the story, it didn't add up," Amari explains.  "We were underestimating Talon. Gérard died because we underestimated Talon." It seems absurd that Amari would take responsibility for that when she hadn't been in Overwatch at the time, but Amélie can't bring herself to be surprised. "If we know what they are capable of, we can better stop them. We can keep them from doing anything like this again." Amari says it like a promise. "And you may have many crimes under your belt, but if willing treachery was not one of them then I think your name should be cleared of it."

All these months she's been here, and Amélie still can't read Amari.

"Do you suppose I should thank you?" Amélie snips.

"All things considered, I think you owe me more than that," Amari says archly, "but it's not a debt I intend to collect on."

"Not even for your mother?" Amélie asks. Possibly snarls, except that she feels too tired to do that properly.

"There is justice, and there is revenge," Amari says. "I like to think I have a good idea of where one ends and the other begins." She stands up. "I should return to the meeting. I will relay my findings for you."

Wonderful. Amélie doesn't think she can handle reactions. Maybe they'll all have their strong feelings at the meeting and leave her out of them completely. That would be nice.

"Do as you wish," she says.

Amari gives her an unreadable look. After a moment of thought, she adds, "Eventually, I will need to know what they did to you."

Amélie doesn't let herself think about it, about being overwhelmed by pain, drowning in fear, shutting down. "Not now," she almost begs.

"No, not now," Amari agrees, and leaves.

Amélie is tired. Emotions are exhausting. She gently folds forwards and sprawls herself over the table, staring into the nothing space by the cutlery drawer.

She's not sure how much later it is when Angela comes, but it surely hasn't been long enough for their meeting to be done. Amélie is distantly grateful for it, regardless. She looks up at Angela, and Angela meets her eyes. They don't say anything. Angela goes and fills a glass with water and sets it on the table between Amélie's arms, close enough to her face to make her cross-eyed.

"Drink," Angela says. Strict, but not unkind. "You need to stay hydrated after crying."

"I was not crying. I was inconveniently leaking," Amélie replies sullenly. "I doubt I lost that much water."

"Regardless," says Angela, scooting the glass a little closer. Amélie scrunches up her nose and sits up. Trying to focus on the glass was making her head ache. "When did you last eat?"

Amélie thinks about it as she takes a sip. "I don't recall."

Angela _tsks_. She turns to the fridge and sets about making something.

Amélie takes another sip, just for something to do. A thought occurs to her, bubbling up from the slow mire of belated realization.

"You are upset," she observes.

"What was done to you is upsetting," Angela says. There's a stiffness to her voice that reaffirms Amélie's judgement.

"You don't know what was done to me."

"I know enough. I can imagine the rest, and no option is a good one."

Going into detail is certainly not going to comfort her. "It was a long time ago," Amélie says. There aren't even any marks left. "You don't need to be upset."

Angela sets a sandwich in front of her. "I am sorry for what happened to you."

Amélie inspects the sandwich. Peanut butter and banana, neatly sliced into triangles.

"I am not Winston," she says.

"That's why I added bread," Angela replies, "and honey."

Angela sits beside Amélie while she eats, watching her and clearly trying not to. Despite not feeling hungry, Amélie finds that it disappears fast. She's grateful for the water to wash out the cloying taste. It's good in small doses, but not when left to gum up her mouth. Angela's behavior is off, and Amélie can't tell why. At first she thinks it's because Angela thinks she's feeling fragile, but there's a nagging sense that the fragile one is Angela herself.

Amélie doesn't know what to do about that. She combs through memories from a time when she dealt with fragile people, looking for the correct way to respond.

Amélie scoots her chair closer to Angela's. Almost instantly, she can feel the heat start to seep through the sweater on her arm.

"What are you doing?" Angela asks.

"I am trying to be comforting," Amélie says. Her suggestive tone is in self defense. Angela blows out a little laugh and smiles.

"I think I'm supposed to be comforting you," she says.

"I think you are more upset than I am," Amélie replies.

Angela tentatively leans against Amélie. She's very warm. "Are you not upset at all?" she asks.

Amélie tries to take stock, but it's no use. "I don't know."

"You were crying earlier."

"I did not realize it."

"So I'd gathered," Angela huffs lightly. "I take it your emotional responses are returning unpredictably."

That's a word for it. "Yes. Hold still for a moment."

Angela makes a confused noise, but before she can ask Amélie has pulled away to yank off the sweater. When she gets back in place, Angela feels much warmer against her bare arm, but the rest of her is cooling off better to compensate.

They sit together in silence until Angela cautiously says, "Do you miss him?"

Objectively, Amélie realizes that she must. The feelings are dull and unrecognizable, but the results are undeniable. She's gone to his grave once a year at least, without ever thinking of why. Even just the question makes her feel heavy. "Yes."

There's a moment and then, "I only knew Gérard a little," Angela says slowly, "but I think he would have been glad that you came back to us, no matter what."

Amélie snorts. Angela sits up to look at her.

"You disagree?"

Amélie says nothing in response.

"Well, what do you think Gérard would have wanted?" Angela prompts.

On the projection screen, Amélie and Gérard's pictures had been as far apart as they could be. That seems right. "Gérard would have hated what I've become," Amélie says. "He gave his life to destroying Talon. I have spent the last decade furthering their goals."

"Oh, Amélie," Angela sighs. "I'm sure it wouldn't be as simple as that."

"I'm not," says Amélie.

Angela looks at her, and looks down at how close their chairs are set, and asks, "Do you want a hug?"

Of course she does. Not. Does not. Does. Amélie doesn't know. Being close to Angela is nice.

"If I begin to overheat..." she starts.

"Just let me know," Angela says, wrapping one arm up around Amélie's shoulders.

It's a careful hug, Angela seemingly trying to confine her heat to as small an area as possible while still holding Amélie tight. When Amélie tries to reciprocate, she finds that to be too much. Wrapping a hand around Angela's arm is fine, though.

Eventually, the heat is intolerable, but for a little while it's good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, y'all. If you're enjoying the fic and you haven't hit that kudos button or left a comment, maybe consider doing that. I love the feedback and I love hearing from all of you! Until next time~


	8. I Wanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, guys~ We're nearing the end now. Shout out to the MercyMaker discord server and all their encouraging comments :)
> 
> Content warning for this chapter: a severe dissociative episode.

As far as Amélie sees, Amari's revelation of her recruitment doesn't change much. If the older Overwatch members are a little more gentle around her, it's only a little. The different engineers and their pet projects start moving out of the cramped, password locked work area they've been using. Life goes on as normal.

Winston offers to remove the anklet. Amélie finds that she feels weird about living without a tracker when she isn't on the run. With the anklet on, she can't disappear. If Talon got to her now, Overwatch would find her within hours.

She asks for it to be replaced with a subcutaneous tracker.

Winston protests, insisting that it's not necessary. Eventually, he acquiesces.

~~~

Oxton shows up next to Amélie in her usual flare of blue. "So you're just up here all the time, innit?" she asks.

They're on the roof right now, so that's wrong. "No," Amélie says shortly. It occurs to her that in all the time she's known Oxton, as an enemy and now as an uneasy ally, it's always Oxton who comes to her first. This seems backwards, somehow, like Amélie should be the one begging for Oxton to bother with her.

If she doesn't appreciate the short answer, Oxton doesn't show it. She rarely does. "So."

Amélie lets that hang in the air, raises an eyebrow at Oxton, finally prompts, "'So'?"

For Oxton, fidgeting is a full body action. "So," she says again. "Brainwashin', huh?"

Oh. Amélie stands and goes over to lean on the railing. The view does nothing to help the fact that Oxton wants to talk about this.

"'Zat why you did the whole evil-laugh cold-blooded killer thing?"

"You can't possibly think that working for Talon for so long wouldn't change a person," Amélie side-steps the answer.

"So what's you and what's the brainwashin'?" Oxton asks, leaning against the railing next to her with a deliberate stare. Amélie doesn't look at her, but she can see those big eyes in the corner of her vision.

"An excellent question, chérie," Amélie sighs. There's a twitch in the edge of her vision that suggests Oxton is frowning now. Amélie gets the sense that Oxton is trying to feel her out, but she's not comfortable being emotional with her. They're not friends, for all that Oxton is a friendly person and entertaining from a distance.

"'Zit true you can't feel things?"

Amélie shrugs. "I feel things sometimes. When the emotion is strong enough."

"And that's how they made you loyal to them, izzat right, luv?"

No matter how much Amélie doesn't want to discuss this, there is a sharp pain deep inside at that question. She can't let it go without clearing it up. "No. It is how they kept me from being disloyal."

She's not sure if Oxton actually understands, but she drops that line of questioning at least. Not that the new line is much better, when it starts with, "So you don't feel anything for your victims?"

Her stomach churns. That probably means something, but she can't rightly interpret it as anything as concrete as guilt. "Some of them," Amélie says. Gérard. Maybe the children. "Usually I do not think of them."

"Mondatta?" Oxton asks.

"I have not thought of him," Amélie repeats.

"Well, you might wanna get on that soon, luv," Oxton says. "His brother's supposed to be flyin' in here inside the week."

Amélie keeps her face very still. Her breaths are even. Her heart beats regularly. Her thoughts are empty. She is, possibly, too still.

When she turns to look at Oxton, the other woman looks… smug? No. Victorious, maybe, but not necessarily a happy version of it.

"Do you want me to feel guilty?" Amélie snaps. "Would it please you if I curled up into a ball, crushed under the weight of my crimes, and begged for forgiveness?"

Disgust is very easy to read on Oxton's face. Much less nuance to interpret. "Now that's just unfair," she protests. "Maybe I'm hopin' for some sign you're not a completely amoral berk."

Despite everything, it's nice to have someone just come out and say it. Amélie smirks. "You think there might yet be some glimmer of goodness in me? I'm touched."

"I don't know what to think, if I'm bein' completely honest," Oxton says, hands on her hips. "Wouldn't'a given it a second thought earlier, and now all this comes out, and Angela's pretty insistent that you used to be a good person so I'm tryin' to give you a chance here."

"Angela is very optimistic," Amélie tells her.

She doesn't know how to interpret the expression Oxton makes. Squinty, head tilted, like she forgot her glasses and is trying to see.

"Your face will freeze like that," says Amélie.

"Still better'n yours," Oxton responds cheekily.

It's decidedly untrue, no matter how handsome Oxton might be. Amélie snorts derisively.

"'M not sure you get a say on this," Oxton objects. "Between your fashion sense and that nightmare of a tattoo, I don't think you actually know what looks good."

"This is Angela's clothing," Amélie points out.

"Oh, luv," Oxton sighs, looking more sympathetic than Amélie has ever genuinely seen. "That's not the outfit I'm talkin' about."

Evidently, she wants the last word, because she's gone before Amélie can answer.

Amélie has already turned back to the ocean when she hears Oxton's voice again.

"I'm still gonna have my eye on you," Oxton says.

"Acknowledged," Amélie sighs. She doesn't turn to see if Oxton stays long enough to hear her.

~~~

Reinhardt is planning to leave shortly after Genji arrives. He wants to see his old friend, and then he wants to get back to active duty regarding the hero business. It's only a day after this announcement is made that Amélie, lying behind the couch in the social area, hears the argument.

She misses the beginning because she's zoning out to mindless pop courtesy of Angela's headphones. As the Hits Of The 2020s playlist fades out, she catches Angela saying, "-should be allowed to live a life, not get dragged around on adventures!"

"I'm not that much younger than you, you know," Brigitte's voice points out, a little closer to the couch. "And if I remember it right, you were younger than I am when you joined Overwatch."

"Overwatch didn't have me travelling to all ends of the earth in a camper." Angela says _camper_ like it's dirty.

"I like the camper," Brigitte says shortly.

"But there are so many better things you could-" Angela starts, but Brigitte cuts her off.

"I already know you don't approve, Angela. Reinhardt told me." She sounds angry, the way she did when she put her foot down with Amélie. Brigitte has drawn a line in the sand and she's not going to let Angela cross it. "You may not think much of what I've chosen to do with my life, but _I_ chose it. I'm not being 'dragged' anywhere. I chose adventuring." Angela is silent, and Brigitte continues more quietly, "And for what it's worth, I think there's worse choices I could make than keeping an old man company and learning the tricks of his trade before they're gone."

There's silence. Angela breaks it with, "I'm sorry. I did not mean to insult you."

"It's fine," Brigitte answers. Amélie can't tell how true that is, but memory says this tone is preemptive. The apology will be accepted later, and she's saying so now even though she's still mad.

"I have seen many people forced into fighting when they would have been better suited to… anything else," Angela explains. "I do not like the feeling of seeing it happen again."

Amélie thinks back to meeting Angela, pacifist and combat medic. They've never discussed what that was like for her.

There's a soft _paf_ noise. Brigitte's voice is farther away, closer to Angela, when she speaks. "No offense, but that seems like _your_ problem, not mine." Her voice sounds… amused, maybe. Teasing. Angela laughs, but it's ragged.

Amélie debates whether she should come out when a set of footsteps leaves the room. Would Angela appreciate the eavesdropping? What if Angela is the one who left? Would Brigitte be mad? Amélie puts a name to the feeling of _awkward_ just in time to hear the second person leave, too.

~~~

Amélie first sees Tekhartha Zenyatta the same way that she saw Mondatta: from a distance, through her visor, while hanging from a roof. She doesn't have a rifle this time, because she's not here for that. There is a disquiet in her that rejects going closer.

He looks just like Mondatta. The clothes are more ragged and travel-worn, but they're the same model, and the customization of his facepiece is too similar to be anything but deliberate. The omnic with him must be Genji, whose name rings faintly familiar from her past but has no memories or emotions attached. She'd probably heard him mentioned, the same way she's heard of him around the Watchpoint for awhile now.

Zhou leads them out of the Reserve and into the Watchpoint, and Amélie drops rapidly to reposition herself. She arrives above the entry in time to hear Oxton saying, presumably to Zenyatta, "Mondatta was an inspiration to me."

"To us all," the mechanical voice replies. "I miss him greatly."

Amélie doesn't remember omnics being able to sound sad. It's… disconcerting.

"I'm sorry for your loss," says Oxton. "Both of you."

"Thank you," says Zenyatta.

"Your sympathy is appreciated," says another voice, equally tinny, probably Genji.

"Let us show you around," Zhou offers.

Amélie debates following as the group sets off. She knows she's being ridiculous. There's a difference between hearing the conversations people have right next to her sleeping corners, and actively listening in on other people. But she's curious. She knows the newcomers will ask about the spider in their midst sooner or later. They have to. If Zhou knew ahead of time, they will as well.

She wants to know where she stands, and yet she doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want to be near Zenyatta at all. When did this happen? Amélie was able to face Fareeha Amari with her head held high, but the idea of facing Tekhartha Zenyatta is paralyzing.

Amélie decides not to follow.

~~~

Angela doesn't have the chance to seek Genji out after he arrives; he comes to her first. She's taking a break from the med bay, sipping at a mug of coffee in the kitchen. Genji is very capable of being silent, but when he steps into the room it's audible, and Angela's sure that was intentional.

"Greetings, Doctor Ziegler."

Angela smiles tentatively. All other complications aside, she couldn't help but get emotionally invested when she was helping him recover. His voice sounds easier than it used to. "Genji. It's been a long time."

"It has." He slides out a chair for himself, and Angela watches to see that his movements are all smooth. "You have been doing well, I hope?"

She is emotionally raw, but working on it. "I have. Work is hard as always, but it's satisfying. You seem to be doing well, yourself."

"Quite well, thank you. I am a different man now," Genji replies. There's a laugh in his tone. It's a stark difference from how he was when they last met. "My master has helped me a lot."

"So you've mentioned," Angela says. Zenyatta's efforts show in Genji's every action. "I would love to meet him."

"He is currently speaking with Winston. I believe he's curious about his unique perspective on humanity," says Genji. "I will introduce you as soon as I can."

"Thank you," Angela says. She's debating whether she should say anything about the revelations she's had over the years, or whether that would be bringing up something unneeded.

Genji seems like he wants to say something, though, and when Angela holds off for a moment her intuition is proven right. "I believe… I did not ever thank you properly for what you did for me," he says, standing up. "At the time, I was very angry. I know I was not the easiest person to deal with." He bows and continues, "I apologize for my past behavior, and I thank you for saving my life."

Angela is stunned, but she manages to get out, "Oh, no, it- it's all right, Genji. I understand." She stops herself from saying _It was nothing_ , knowing that's untrue, but she always feels off when patients thank her and it's more than normal this time. He straightens up, and Angela tries to smile reassuringly. She knows what she has to tell him, but not how to do so. "I actually…"

Genji sits and cocks his head to the side, a silent question.

"I wanted to apologize as well," Angela says. "It was a difficult time for you, and Overwatch took advantage of that. The way you were recruited was wrong. I am sorry for that, and for my part in it."

She's not sure if he's so still that her mind is playing tricks, but his shoulders seem to relax.

"I have made my peace with what happened," Genji says softly, "but I appreciate the apology."

Angela breathes out a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you're doing well," she says. "Truly. You deserve it."

"So do you," says Genji. When Angela finds herself tongue-tied, he takes pity and says, "Shall we find my master? I'm sure he'd love to meet you, as well."

"Thank you. Yes," Angela says. She drains the last of her coffee. "Let's do that."

~~~

Amélie is not at her best when Athena summons her out of her crawlspace for another mission. She's been hiding from Zenyatta for two days, and probably worrying Angela and Reinhardt in the process. She has determinedly done very little thinking, and no eating at all, though that's less intentional.

When people started bringing things from Gibraltar for her, they didn't always bring back treats. Amélie has a handful of shirts and two pairs of pants to supplement what she borrows from Angela. The stolen pieces she wore when she first arrived were relegated to a corner where they've been gathering dust, but they're the clothes she dislikes so she shakes them out. A shirt off a clothesline and pants off one of the few corpses she'll probably never feel guilt for. It's not hard to shift into mission mode as she changes, paying attention to every detail of getting dressed, of preparing her rifle, of putting on her visor.

It feels like there's a roaring in her ears. As soon as she isn't going step-by-step through her prep, she starts having trouble focussing. Amélie loses a few minutes before she shakes her head and goes to Winston's office.

It's another subtlety mission. Stay in position. Protect the target. No civilian casualties, no collateral damage. She follows Winston's words in a fugue, and when he asks if she's alright Amélie laughs it off. She's going to work. Soon, she'll be feeling the best she ever does.

The trip to Milan seems to go by in the blink of an eye. Amélie tries to shake it off. Maybe she can't deny that something is wrong, but she can damn well try.

Overwatch is letting her out on her own this time, just Winston on the comms to back her up. Moving alone through the night, Amélie can discreetly get to her designated perch inside of five minutes entirely on auto-pilot. Up high, she can feel the wind blow right through her civilian-wear, but it's far from cold enough to be uncomfortable. Mostly, it just reminds her that she's going to need to ask about new armor.

"Target incoming, Amélie. Are you ready?" Winston's voice buzzes in her ear. She's gotten distracted again, but settling into position doesn't take long.

"Amélie?"

"Acknowledged. Widowmaker in position," she confirms. Through the scope, she sights her target as he gets out of his vehicle and starts to move towards his hotel.

Her vigil is intended to last all night; she wasn't paying attention, but seems to recall something about the target having a meeting. It doesn't matter. He's valuable and Overwatch suspects there will be an attempt on his life.

The first several hours after the target enters the building are unremarkable. Amélie remembers killing Mondatta at his rally, and thinks she could have watched that all night if she hadn't-

If she hadn't-

"Amélie, Athena's scanners are picking up some chatter," says Winston. "You may have company."

"Understood." Amélie pulls back from the rifle and activates her visor, scanning the area. "Allez, montre-toi," she mutters under her breath. There's not too many people out at this time of night, but what few there are don't stand out until… "Et voilà," she whispers as the visor highlights a pair of figures stalking through the alley behind the hotel. "Winston, have Athena confirm the two in the alley."

"One moment," Athena chimes in directly. Amélie's breath is steady, but her heartbeat feels too strong. It's not faster than normal but she's finding herself horribly aware of every beat as though it's trying to pound out of her chest. Athena says, "Hostiles confirmed."

Amélie's hands are shaking as she deactivates the visor and takes aim through the scope again. They're obviously dressed for combat, faces covered against the city's cameras. Who are they? Amélie hadn't been paying attention during the briefing, and suddenly her mind is stuck on that question. Who are they? Who are they? Had it even been mentioned?

Amélie has spent a very long time shooting whoever she was told to shoot. She tells herself she can trust Overwatch but her finger is paralyzed over the trigger as she watches the assailants approaching the door.

"Winston," she says too sharply, "who are these people?"

"What?" Winston asks, confused.

They're preparing to breach. "Who do they work for? Tell me, now!"

"Talon! It's Talon! What's-" but that's enough for Amélie to move again. She fires and sees the first agent go down, then takes out the second before they can do more than look up in alarm. Her heart is pounding.

"-Amélie? Answer me!"

"Targets neutralized," Amélie answers, cold.

~~~

She barely makes it back onto the transport. Amélie doesn't feel satisfied. She doesn't feel well. She feels shaky and uncertain and upset. Winston tries to ask how she is again, and she snaps at him to leave her alone. Hunkering down in the back of the transport, she stares at her rifle.

Either Winston or Athena must have radioed ahead without her noticing, because Angela is onboard within seconds of their touching down in Gibraltar. Amélie finds herself gently ushered out of the hanger and then out of the Watchpoint itself. It's bright.

"What time is it?" she asks Angela.

"Nine, more or less," Angela answers, guiding her to sit down. "Are you alright?"

"Of course," Amélie says absently. A few of the local monkeys are moving past on the edge of the tree line, and Amélie finds herself staring at them.

Angela mutters, "Gott im Himmel," under her breath before reaching out and turning Amélie's face towards her. "You are clearly not," she says staunchly. "What do you need right now?"

Amélie's overwhelmed. "Calm," she manages.

"Alright."

~~~

"I couldn't do it," Amélie says into the silence. She's laying on her back, staring up at the blue sky through the leafy canopy. The quiet swallows her voice and makes it seems small. "I knew they were the enemy, but that wasn't enough. I needed to know _why_. I couldn't shoot them on faith." Angela hums to show she's listening, but doesn't interrupt. "The only thing that ever makes me feel alive is the satisfaction of a job well done, and I almost couldn't do the job. And now, I don't feel satisfied for having done it."

When she doesn't say anything more, Angela prompts her. "What are you feeling, then?"

That's the problem. Amélie doesn't know.

"Something," Amélie says with a helpless shrug.

"Will it help to talk through it?"

Amélie shrugs again. "I completed the mission. Protected the target. Two perfect headshots. Clean kills. Beautiful." She glances over and sees that Angela has gone stiff, which she could've predicted, but there's no avoiding this. At least she can identify the twinge of guilt it inspires. "I should be proud of it. But I'm not." Amélie looks away, back at the unjudging sky. "Or perhaps I should be happy, because they were Talon agents and they deserved it, but I'm not that either. I'm," Amélie frowns as she realizes, "I'm unhappy. It had to be done but I'm unhappy that I had to do it."

"Even though," Angela asks hesitantly, "when you came here, you _wanted_ to kill?"

"I wanted to _feel_ ," says Amélie. "I wanted to kill to feel but it did not matter who." She props herself up on an elbow, needing suddenly to look at Angela more evenly. "Did you know I shot Mondatta while I was in freefall? It was high-profile and exciting and it did not matter that he," her breath hitches, "that he died. It did not matter that he had a brother or- or-"

Angela smiles sadly. She reaches out and wipes a tear off Amélie's cheek. "It's alright. I've got you."

"I didn't want to kill _him_ ," Amélie insists.

"I know," says Angela gently, "I know. You never chose this."

Angela is so beautiful right now, and Amélie can never have her. It hurts.

Amélie pulls herself into a more upright position. She wipes at her face, but there are no more errant tears. The surge of emotion has abruptly receded and left her tired.

"Why do you bother with me?" Amélie asks. "By choice or not, I am a killer many times over."

"It's not as though I'm unbothered by that," Angela admits. "It's… complicated."

"Of course it is," Amélie says sullenly. She hadn't meant to say it out loud but there it is.

"Well," Angela starts slowly, "you are very different from how you were before. It still catches me by surprise sometimes. And I," her face makes a complicated expression, "I wanted to hate you, when you first came back. But then you kept catching me by surprise with the things that were the same. I've gotten to know you again and it seems to me that the parts that _matter_ are still the same ones that I loved before."

Amélie can see Angela realize the words coming out of her mouth too late to stop them. Angela freezes, turning bright red, and brings a hand over her mouth. She looks at Amélie sidelong. "I mean…" she starts, and stops.

Amélie knew Angela was tempted. 'Loved' is a lot more than just tempted. She doesn't know what to do with 'loved _before_ '.

"Careful not to say anything you will regret, chérie," Amélie says quietly. "You wouldn't want to ruin what you have with Madame Amari."

Angela looks down, embarrassed. "Fareeha already knows how I feel," she admits.

Fareeha Amari needs to stop surprising Amélie, but, "I can't imagine she's open to sharing you with the woman who killed her mother," Amélie sneers.

Angela looks back up at her, face twisted in confusion. "Share?"

"You are not saying you would leave her for me," Amélie scoffs.

There's a moment of silence and then

"Fareeha and I aren't dating," Angela says.

"What?"

"We're not a couple. You thought that we were?" Angela asks.

"Yes," Amélie answers bluntly. "You're perfect for each other. You are so good, and she's _noble_ and _heroic_. She should be your type."

"Do you think so?" Angela asks. She looks away into the trees, fidgeting with her nails. "It would never work. Friends, certainly, but I can't imagine being lovers. She always wanted to be a soldier. I am a pacifist."

This is wrong. The logic is sound, but it's wrong. Even if it's not Amari, Angela should want someone _like_ her, with clean hands and a clean conscience. Angela shouldn't want Amélie. It's not supposed to be a possibility.

"But you're _good_ ," Amélie repeats, trying get Angela to see it, "and I'm _not_."

"Amélie," Angela says, and her smile is sad but it isn't complicated, "it is very clear to me that you are not nearly as bad as you think you are."

Amélie can't believe that.

"I need to think," Amélie manages. "I had not considered that you- I need to think," she repeats.

"I understand," says Angela. "This was not a good time for this to come up. I'm sorry about that. I hope we can still be friends?"

"Don't do that," Amélie says, more loudly than intended. "I'm not saying that. I need to think. I just need time to think."

Angela looks surprised. "Of course. Take all the time you need."

~~~

Amélie walks into Winston's workspace a bundle of confusion with one clear direction. "I need some leave time," she announces.

"That… shouldn't be a problem," Winston says, clearly bewildered. "Most of our time has been downtime so far-"

"No," Amélie steps on the end of his sentence. "Not time without a mission. I need to go. Just for a little bit, and then I'll be back." She hesitates and adds, "It's important."

"You're not worried about the authorities catching you off base?"

"Not with the right supplies," Amélie answers. "I can disguise myself for a short while."

Winston thinks for a moment, and finally shrugs and says, "Do you need transportation?"

~~~

Amélie hasn't been back to Annecy since before her defection from Talon. She hasn't _cared_ about being in Annecy for much longer.

She wonders why Talon kept her here so often, so close to her old life. Were they testing her? Gloating? Did they just not care? There's no one Amélie can ask.

It's a risk coming back, but she can't do anything else. Staying away feels like slowly dying. She carries a large make-up case in her bag and slathers her face in foundation to cover up the blue. The nosepads of her sunglasses look like they're caked in mud no matter how often she wipes them off.

Amélie feels wrong in her skin as she walks through the city. She's like a ghost, invisible, torn between wishing that someone, anyone, would recognize her as belonging here but terrified of being noticed at the same time. She's come home. She doesn't belong.

There are two plots side by side in the Cimetière de Loverchy. Gérard Lacroix's grave was given special protection, and Amélie Lacroix's empty one comes with it. They were buried together in spirit, when Amélie was presumed dead. Amélie isn't sure the assumption was wrong.

She wishes she could pretend she doesn't know why she always comes straight to the Cimetière instead of visiting their first home, the University they both attended, the church where she and Gérard were wed, any place in Paris. It'd be so easy to say _I don't know why I came here first_ and _I don't know why I only came here for this_. She knows why: it's because Gérard is dead. For the first time in a decade that fact matters in a way it never has before, in a way that it _should_ have mattered before.

They were so young when they lived here together. Gérard was a romantic. He brought her to le Pâquier to propose, two days after he was promoted to captain and two months before Overwatch scouted him, and they kissed at the center of the Pont des Amours. Legend said they should have been together for life; that had been true for Gérard, at least. Amélie is still alive, looking down at their shared grave and not feeling particularly lively at all.

It's not even eight in the morning, and the Cimetière is empty. There are hedges around it. No one sees Amélie gracefully fold up on the ground between where the coffins must be, facing the gravestones. She hasn't thought of Gérard in a long time, not properly. Now she thinks of him. His serious expression when he was in uniform, standing with pride. The warmer, softer pride as Gérard handed her a bouquet of roses backstage after Amélie danced Swan Lake. Gérard's brilliant smile when his calloused hands slipped the ring onto her finger. Gérard's sleeping face as she wrapped her slim fingers around his neck and pressed down on the carotid arteries.

In all these years, the Widowmaker never cried for Gérard. Amélie cries now, all the tears she'd never released leaving tracks through her makeup and revealing the incriminating color below. Her shoulders heave with the force of her sobs, and she presses both hands over her mouth to muffle the sound.

She doesn't want to be alone right now, but she is perversely glad that she is.

 _What do you think Gérard would have wanted?_ Angela had asked, and Amélie had told her: he would have hated the Widowmaker. She is everything he fought against, everything that he hated. Talon's pet assassin, killing good people and revelling in it. For the Widowmaker, who killed his wife and left a murderess in her place, he would have wanted justice.

The woman she was had deserved none of what happened to her. Amélie cries for Amélie Lacroix, too, who had been twenty-seven when Talon destroyed her. Gérard had wanted her to be separate from his work. Gérard had wanted her safe. He would never have wanted her tortured, or broken, or sobbing alone at his grave. For Amélie, his widow, the first widow the Widowmaker ever left behind, she can't deny that he would have wanted happiness.

She shudders through her gulping breaths, wrung out and exhausted, with nothing left in her to give. She feels, abruptly, robbed. She's felt it before, robbed of her husband and her feelings and the life she should have had. Now, it hits her again that she was robbed of her right to mourn, and robbed of her right to say goodbye. A few late hiccups try to break her into tears again, but the emotion can't gain traction.

Amélie whispers _Adieu_ , over and over again, until her breath evens out enough for her to stand again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next week for the last chapter, everyone. If you're enjoying the fic, please comment and/or kudos to let me know!


	9. Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, guys. Final chapter. Just a few last threads to tie up.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for sticking with me through this :)

****Amélie kisses Angela for the first time when she gets back from France.

She spends the walk through the Reserve feeling agitated for no reason. It registers as excitement, or maybe nerves, while she's scrubbing the last of the makeup off her hands.

"Athena?" she asks a computer screen tentatively.

"Yes, Ms. Lacroix?" the icon answers. It doesn't hurt to hear.

"Where is Angela?"

"I believe Dr. Ziegler is currently in the medical wing," the AI answers.

Amélie starts to walk into the hall before old habits make themselves known. "Merci, Athena," she says belatedly. It's only polite, but… it's only polite.

"Of course, Amélie," says Athena.

Angela's office is more personalized than her room. Amélie had never thought of that before, or of the fact that Angela entertains people in the office more despite very rarely needing to take care of the agents' collective health. Amari is there with her now, and their conversation has nothing to do with medicine.

They both glance at Amélie as she enters, but she waves them back to their talk as she moves around to lean against the exam table.

"Well," Amari picks up from the interruption, "I'll be back in two weeks to check in with Winston, so we can talk again then."

"It's not like phones have stopped working," Angela says with a smile. Amélie tries not to stare.

"It's not the same," says Amari. "And with time zones and work and everything," she makes an _on and on_ sort of gesture and lets the sentence drop unfinished. "If you don't think of anything else, come visit Cairo again."

"If I don't think of anything else," Angela agrees. Amélie feels a twinge of the old ache. She hasn't been waiting long, but it feels like forever. Angela glances over at her, and Amélie feels like a child waiting for Gérard to finish talking to a professor after classes. Once upon a time, she would have started jiggling a leg restlessly.

Amari says something in Arabic. Her tone is playful. Angela says, "Fareeha!" like a reprimand, and Amari laughs.

"I still have things to put in order before I go," says Amari, "so I suppose I must say goodbye now."

"No," Angela protests, "I'll see you off in the morning."

"You don't have to-" Amari starts to say but,

"Go take care of your business," Angela interrupts. "Save the farewells for tomorrow."

"Fine," Amari agrees, rolling her eyes. She waves to Angela as she leaves, and makes the gesture wide enough to include Amélie in it as well. By the time Amélie thinks to respond, Amari is gone.

"Welcome back," Angela says. Her smile is faint and soft. "How was your trip?"

"Tiring," Amélie says. She tries smiling back, but it feels off. "I had a lot to think about."

"Oh?" Angela looks… Amélie doesn't know how Angela looks. Nervous, maybe. "Like what?"

"Like what Gérard would have wanted," says Amélie. "What I want." Her eyes feel wet, but the smile comes more easily this time. She gently tugs at the hem of Angela's blouse and Angela obligingly steps closer. "I think he would have wanted me to be happy."

Amélie likes Angela's smile. "Can I help?" Angela asks.

"I don't even know if it's possible," Amélie answers, "but I think maybe you could." She pulls Angela a little closer, close enough that she can feel her warmth. Amélie purrs, "I really like you."

That surprises a laugh from Angela. "I really like you, too, schätzli," she's still giggling, "but I think you already knew that."

Amélie thinks _I don't deserve you_ and says, "I'm still not a good person, you know."

The facial expression Angela makes is complicated, but she doesn't respond. Instead she leans in, face centimeters away from Amélie's, and asks, "May I…?"

Instead of speaking, Amélie closes the distance. Angela's lips are warm, and slick with lip balm. It's been a long time since Amélie kissed someone she cared about, and longer still since she kissed someone she wasn't intending to kill, and she pulls away before it can become overwhelming.

"Beautiful," she murmurs so Angela won't think something's wrong. "Merci, Mercy." Angela breaks into laughter, catching Amélie's face in her hands to give her another peck on the lips before continuing to giggle helplessly.

"I was so nervous, and that's what you say?" she manages. She's very pink. Heat is spreading from her hands to soak into Amélie's cheeks, but it's not too much.

"How can I help it, ma cherie? You are too lovely," Amélie fawns rather than reveal how sincere her gratitude had been. Amélie isn't sure she remembers what happiness felt like, but she thinks it might have been something like this.

~~~

Reinhardt, Brigitte, and Torbjörn leave together. They will part ways in Munich, Torbjörn going back to his family in Sweden while Reinhardt and Brigitte continue eastward. There's a small farewell group around the van as they finish packing up: Winston, Oxton, Angela, and Genji. Amélie is also there, technically, but she's back off to the side watching the goodbyes from a distance.

Reinhardt notices her, and she wishes his approach was more discrete but the man probably doesn't know the meaning of the word. It's some small mercy that no one follows him.

"I appreciate that you have come to see us off!" he greets.

Amélie graces him with a wry smile and shrugs. "I had nothing better to do."

"Nevertheless," he says. "Do you know where your journey will take you next?"

"I was not planning to travel," says Amélie.

"Ah, but who knows how long that will last," Reinhardt sighs. "I can not say where or when we shall meet again, but I am glad at least to have been here to see you come home." Amélie feels a little short of breath. He holds out a piece of paper. "Contact information, for whenever you get a communicator of your own. Or perhaps you can borrow Angela's. If you should ever need anything, I am at your service."

Amélie takes the paper. A quick glance shows multiple contact methods for both Reinhardt and Brigitte. There is also a contact for Torbjörn at the bottom, though she thinks the handwriting might be Brigitte's.

There's a tell-tale prickling at her eyes, but nothing comes of it. Stupid arbitrary emotions. Amélie thinks she's actually going to miss these people when they're gone.

"Thank you," she says, folding the paper up and tucking it into the pocket of Angela's skirt. Amélie curtsies. "It has been a pleasure, Monsieur Wilhelm."

Reinhardt laughs heartily, and bows in return. "The pleasure has been mine, Frau Lacroix."

~~~

Her sniper rifle sits accusingly on Amélie's desk. It is the instrument of her greatest skills, and all of her kills. It is the tool through which she has bought her freedom: a weapon in Overwatch's hands instead of Talon's.

Despite everything, it is a source of comfort. It's familiar. She can do a full takedown on muscle memory and not think for awhile. The shooting range is similarly meditative.

Amélie is starting to realize that she never wants to use it again.

~~~

Amélie chickens out three times before she finally goes to face Zenyatta. He's sitting cross-legged on a balcony overlooking the Reserve, spinning one of his strange balls in loops for the entertainment of a monkey that's come up onto the building. Amélie comes close to running away again, but before she can the monkey tires of losing the game. It chatters at the omnic, annoyed, and runs off to sit on the corner of the railing with a few of its kin. Zenyatta watches it go, and catches sight of Amélie.

Reading humans is hard, but she's getting better. Reading an omnic is downright impossible. Zenyatta turns to look at her more fully, but his face plate radiates nothing but serenity.

Amélie promptly forgets everything she had practiced in her head. "Bonjour," she manages.

"Greetings," he answers. His tone is neutral and unhelpful.

"Do you," Amélie hesitates, "know who I am?"

"I do," he acknowledges, "but I admit I am surprised to see you. I would not have thought you would seek me out."

There might be some reproach in the sentence, but then again Amélie might be imagining it. She steps out of the doorway where she's been hanging back, but only enough to show she's invested in the conversation. She doesn't want to come closer.

"Perhaps I should not have," she admits.

"Yet, here you are," says Zenyatta. "Why have you come?"

Amélie doesn't know how to start, but she tries gamely anyway.

"I killed Mondatta," she says. It's tactless. Perhaps if he was a human, Zenyatta would have flinched or shown some reaction, but there's nothing. "I had my reasons, but they were not good ones." She takes a breath, tries to get to the point. "I'm sorry."

Zenyatta looks down. He's silent for awhile, considering her words. When he finally looks up, he says, "Forgive me, but I can not forgive you." His voice is gentle, and the sentiment deserved, but it stings. "I know that I should," Zenyatta continues. "I am told that you have been trying to atone. But I am not able to do so yet."

"I understand," Amélie says, swallowing down the ache. It's true. She does.

Zenyatta cocks his head to the side. It feels like being scrutinized by a bird. "You are trying to make sense out of the chaos within you," he says.

Amélie doesn't know how to respond to that, so she doesn't.

"I, too, must find peace from the harm that your actions have done." Zenyatta's voice suddenly seems to become cocky as he adds, "I welcome such adversity. Come," he waves a hand to the concrete in front of him. "Sit and speak with me awhile."

There is no way that this conversation will be anything but painful and exhausting, and Amélie doesn't want to have it. Just the interactions they've had so far have been difficult beyond belief. She sits.

~~~

Emotions are hard. Amélie is glad she figured out all the good hiding places back when she was fully functional. The girders and crawlspaces are as quiet as ever, and when all this human interaction finally catches up to her she's able to doze off for awhile without fear of discovery. When she comes back out, Athena can tell her how long it's been and she can continue as normal.

Even when she has to take a break from other people, the exception is Angela, who allows her to quietly exist. Amélie sometimes has to remind herself that she can do more than just retreat to the infirmary. It's a work in progress for Amélie to reach out and move closer, or not to be surprised when Angela takes the initiative. She's not used to shifting aside and letting someone into her space anymore, but it's not as difficult as it could be.

Mostly it's a matter of remembering that she _can_. Gérard had been Amélie's high school sweetheart. There's a part of her that's still not used to the idea of being with someone else. How long ago might this have happened, in a world where she and Gérard hadn't worked out? She certainly remembers finding Angela charming before, but she's found a lot of people charming. Who knows which impulse she would have acted on.

Both their rooms are spartan, but Amélie's has her rifle and Angela's is slightly nicer, so they spend time there when they don't want to invite interruption. She can tangle her legs around Angela's and stay close for awhile without overheating. Hands work also, points of contact too small to overwhelm her.

Amélie doesn't realize Angela's fallen asleep until she slumps over onto Amélie's shoulder. It's too warm, and Amélie eases her down to cradle her head in her lap instead. Angela only stirs enough to mumble something unintelligible and fall asleep again. Amélie stares down at her, gentle and vulnerable, and panics a little.

Angela thinks she can be a good person, and Amélie wants to prove her right. She did right by a lover before, until the world tore them apart. She can do right by Angela now. It's not just going to be Angela taking care of Amélie forever. Amélie can be kind again. She can apologize and she can spare feelings and she can help to ease someone else's burdens instead of creating more.

Amélie had promised Angela that she would try to do better. Now, leaning over her and stroking her hair, she promises herself that she's going to succeed.

~~~

A thought has been growing in Amélie's head. It was vague at first, but slowly solidified and grew to fill every moment of every day with thoughts of consequences. She knows Angela abhors violence, and so she's unsure how Angela will respond to her concerns.

The infirmary is quiet, and the exam table is as comfortable as ever. Amélie has been half dozing and half watching Angela work. There are a lot of doctors all over the world who send her messages for consultations, and Angela gives each one its due time. It seems exhausting to Amélie, but Angela doesn't complain. She has a job to do.

So does Amélie, but therein lies the problem.

Angela taps her screen, and Amélie can vaguely see the email window disappear as the message flies off to its destination. This may be as good a time as any.

"I'm not certain that I can continue to do my job," Amélie says.

Angela turns in her chair to frown at her. "I think you've started this conversation in the middle, schätzli," she replies, setting down the tablet.

"The next time Overwatch sends me on a mission," Amélie clarifies. "I'm not certain I'll be able to pull the trigger."

"You think you will break down again?"

"I don't know," says Amélie, sitting up, "but I know I don't want to kill anyone else."

Angela blinks a few times, smiles, and says, "Alright. Tell Winston if he wants a sniper he will have to find a different one."

Amélie shakes her head. "I can't do that, ma chérie."

"Whyever not?" asks Angela, looking at her quizzically.

"Because," Amélie finds herself mumbling at her knees, "I want to try to be a good person. To make up for what I've done. And I can't do that from prison."

"Why would you be going to prison?"

Amélie stares pointedly at Angela.

"I'm not asking why anyone would arrest you," Angela clarifies huffily. "Why would you go to prison for refusing to kill people?"

Amélie doesn't understand what Angela doesn't understand about this. "That was the deal I made when I came to Overwatch. My freedom was granted in exchange for offering my services to the organization."

Angela's mouth opens, closes, and opens again.

"You look like a fish," Amélie observes.

"We are not going to turn you in for _refusing_ to _kill people_ ," says Angela. She sounds outraged. "Why would you be incarcerated for choosing to be _less_ of a danger to the general public?"

Amélie can't fault the logic, but she keeps coming back to the same problem. "That was the agreement I made. I would shoot for Overwatch, and in return I wouldn't be handed over to the authorities. If I can't hold up my end of the deal-"

"The situation has changed," Angela counters firmly. When Amélie looks dubious at her, she adds, "I guarantee that Winston will not hold you to that arrangement when you tell him your choice. I will come with you if you want."

That would help. "What happens next, then?" asks Amélie. "Do I just hide here for the rest of my life?"

Angela looks thoughtfully off at the wall. She smiles suddenly and turns back to Amélie.

"You could come with me to Oasis," she offers. "I have friends there. If I explain some of the situation, perhaps they could help you with your physical situation."

"Oasis," Amélie repeats. "In Iraq."

"Is there another Oasis?"

Amélie just stares pointedly at Angela. When she continues failing to get the point, Amélie waves a hand over her crop-top and breezy skirt. Angela stares back at her uncomprehending.

" _Iraq_ ," Amélie says again. "Where it is a desert."

"Their buildings have air-conditioning," says Angela. "You will only have to suffer discomfort long enough to get inside. Don't be a baby."

Amélie pouts at her, just for the effect. "Do you really think they could help?"

"The world's greatest scientific minds?" Angela asks. "If not them, then who?"

"Do you really think they _would_ help," Amélie says instead.

"I will put out some feelers," says Angela. "Like I said, I have friends. And your story is very sympathetic."

~~~

Fareeha doesn't actually have to come back to Gibraltar again. There's nothing she needs to do there that can't be done through the phone. She has a _lot_ of work to do back in Cairo.

In addition to stepping back into the Raptora suit for Helix, Fareeha is spearheading Overwatch's next steps against Talon. As one of the less mobile agents, she can't get to Siberia or Korea anytime soon, so it just makes sense. She has the connections to get Gérard Lacroix's old files plus what little work others have done on the issue in the years since, and new information courtesy of Amélie. It's going to take some doing to act on that last bit without revealing her informant, but it can be done.

She's coordinating with her mother and her mother's new partner. Fareeha has heard of 'Soldier 76'. She's heard the rumors about _Jack_. She hasn't asked her mother if that's her new friend's real name. Fareeha isn't sure she's ready to deal with that yet if it turns out to be true.

The only thing she's can't do from Cairo is finish dealing with the problem of Amélie Lacroix. It's complicated, both personally and morally. She's never been entirely certain about what should be done with the ex-assassin, and despite everything that's still the case. Fareeha is certain, now, that the Amélie who came to Gibraltar back in the autumn deserved to rot in jail. She's far less convinced about Amélie now, who's a victim as much as a criminal and has developed a conscience to boot.

Fareeha doesn't hate Amélie, but she can't bring herself to like her. Amélie is a killer. Amélie is a casualty. It's complicated. Since one response can be changed later and the other can't, Fareeha chooses to continue protecting Amélie's freedom.

When Fareeha comes back to Gibraltar, she mainly talks to Winston and Lena about their plans for the organization. She's done some research while she was away. They hammer out details. It's all very official. She chats with Angela, as promised.

Then she goes to find Amélie. It's hard to do when Amélie doesn't want to be found. If Angela hadn't told her about the rafters, Fareeha honestly doesn't think it'd be possible. From the high ground of Winston's computer room, though, Fareeha can spot her target and knows where to go.

When she gets below Amélie's perch, Fareeha calls up to her and gets silence.

"I know you're up there. I saw you," Fareeha tries again. "I need to talk to you."

There's a barely audible sigh, and then Amélie swings from her perch. She's wearing the climbing shoes Winston made her, and they're a strange image with her otherwise civilian outfit. Amélie touches down elegantly in front of Fareeha. Ten points.

"What did you need, chérie?" Amélie asks disinterestedly.

"My mother took a lot of pictures when she was with Overwatch," Fareeha says. Amélie looks suspicious at her. "I have most of them on my computer at home. I thought you might like to have these ones."

She holds out the cheap album she picked up. It's thin, but she only managed to find a few photos with the Lacroixs in them anyway. Amélie takes it and flips it open curiously, and her eyes widen on the first picture: the group shot Fareeha used to identify her when she first came, not that Amélie knows that.

Fareeha watches Amélie slowly flip the pages. A picture of Amélie and Gérard facing the camera, smiling indulgently. Gérard by himself, in uniform, at the Paris Watchpoint. Amélie, Gérard, and Angela turning to the camera from some long-forgotten conversation. The final picture is a candid shot: Gérard and Amélie at a casual party, heads bowed together, laughing.

Amélie stares at the last one for a long time. She seems frozen until she finally blinks several times, rapidly, and closes the album.

"I'm sorry," says Amélie, gaze still down, "about taking your mother from you."

Fareeha doesn't know what she expected when she gave Amélie the album, but maybe she was hoping for this. The apology does nothing but means everything. She made her peace with her mother's situation a long time ago. She's still angry about it. It's complicated.

"Well, that's a start," Fareeha says. Amélie glances up at her and raises an eyebrow. Fareeha smiles at her. "You are on your second chance now. Let's see how you do with it."

"Have I not been doing well so far?" Amélie asks.

"Better than expected," Fareeha congratulates her, "but it has hardly been six months."

Amélie groans. "I doubt I will ever be good enough to meet _your_ standards, chérie."

Unsure what that means, Fareeha frowns. "You will have every chance to prove yourself. Are you the type to refuse a challenge?"

The moment Amélie becomes overwhelmed shows on her face. "We'll see," she says. She turns away and launches her grappling hook back into the eaves, then hesitates. Holding the album up, she adds, "Thank you for this," then tucks it close to her side and disappears above.

~~~

Amélie can't look at the photographs for too long before she starts to shake and has to close them away again. She hates Amari a little. If she lived for a million years, Amélie doesn't think she could ever repay her for this gift.

Tracing the webbing on her arm is a good way to calm down, running her fingers over and over on the black lines until her vision stops blurring. Exhausted, she lays back on the beam. Life would be easier if Amari would just hate her like she should.

C. A. U.

Amélie focuses on breathing.

C. H. E.

Her heart beats as evenly as ever.

M. A. R.

She opens the album again.

It's ironic, she thinks as she looks at the pictures, that Ana Amari would be the one to preserve these scraps of her old life for her. Amélie killed Ana. Now from beyond the grave Ana has given her back a piece of her husband.

Amélie closes the album. She's breathing hard.

She hadn't wanted to kill Ana. Her visor had been broken and she had been furious enough to want the enemy sniper dead. The fact that the enemy sniper was Ana just… hadn't mattered.

Amélie is the greatest sniper in the world. Ana was the best before her, and Amélie gained the title by shooting Ana down. It was an incredible shot, if you ignored who the victim was. Widowmaker had been proud of it.

Amélie is...

Amélie is going to retire. She's going to _retire_. No more shooting, no more death, no more fights she'd never wanted. She's going to take what she still has of Gérard and of herself and she's going to leave with Angela. Half of the picture album is empty. It needs filling.

Amélie rests. She breathes.

~~~

When Angela hugs her, it's quick and fleeting. She sits down beside Amélie and presses a leg against hers, a compromise for cuddling that works for them both. Amélie flashes her a quick smile around a mouthful of toast.

"I've got a travel itinerary," Angela says happily. "Fatima, that's Dr. al-Zahawi, is going to help with transport, and she and Emira, ah, Dr. Vaziri, are both interested in looking at your case."

Amélie swallows. "When will your friends be taking us?" she asks.

"We have a week. Fatima said she could get us as soon as Wednesday but I told her not to rush." Angela's expression goes just a little serious. "You're still sure about this?"

"Your concern is sweet, ma chérie, but unnecessary," Amélie reassures her. "Speaking to Winston only made me more certain, not less, and I wasn't uncertain to begin with. Even though I am going to melt in the desert," she adds with a grimace.

"It will not kill you," Angela says primly, and steals Amélie's coffee.

~~~

That evening, Amélie watches a spider crawl up the wall. It's a common garden spider, nondescript and not very big. It stands out against the pale surface. Amélie gently cups it in her hands, carries it to the window, and sets it free into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! Thanks again for reading! One last time, if you enjoyed this maybe consider leaving a comment or hitting the kudos button.
> 
> I've got some ideas for more Overwatch stuff, but unlike Espoir it's not written up ahead of time. THAT SAID: I have a couple little prompts sitting around for Espoir tie-ins (a few exploring Angela's POV more than was done here), so if there's something you wanted to see explored in this fic that wasn't, maybe drop a note for me. I'm not guaranteeing I'll do follow-ups on everything, but I appreciate the ideas.
> 
> In the meantime, if you enjoyed this, maybe check out my other fic? I'll see you guys next time.

**Author's Note:**

> French translation for this fic was provided by: [billsgotabeard](https://billsgotabeard.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Fanart exists for this fic! [A scene from chapter 6, illustrated by JBOH.](https://jeweledbranchofhourai.tumblr.com/post/162195906982/angela-makes-an-unamused-face-and-holds-out-the)


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